


Skies of Vermillion

by Crescent_Moon_Demon



Category: Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Master/Slave, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-03-02 18:31:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 81,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2822024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crescent_Moon_Demon/pseuds/Crescent_Moon_Demon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*AU* One regular routine check-up on the local market, and suddenly the Emperor's councilor is bringing a new item home: in the form of a silent, winged Autobot. Is the chance of love too much to hope for, or is his new slave forever "a damaged bird"?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**C.M.D: Believe it or not, this was a fanfic NOT removed from Fanfiction. Anyways, normally I research material before I write about certain topics, but honestly I just wanted to have fun with Soundwave and Tracks, and so I mish-mashed my simple knowledge of ancient civilizations together, tied in with some artistic rights, to create a roman-englishlike setting. I hope you enjoy it all the same!**   
**Originally posted October 15, 2011**

It was a dank, dark sort of place; the kind only vagabonds kept when dealing with illegal merchandise. Considering the specific mech who owned this establishment, such a place was fitting. Soundwave followed at Swindle's pedes quietly, his gaze discretely analyzing and cataloguing everything around him. He would need to remember this data for later, when he reported to Megatron.

"We've gotten a lot of new wares," the dealer was saying. He glanced back over his shoulder plating, that same greasy smirk on his faceplates that he usually wore. If he thought that it made him more appealing, then he was sorely mistaken.

For the most part, Soundwave ignored Swindle, only glancing at the objects the smaller mech pointed out. The piles of stolen goods were not what he was looking for. What care did Megatron have for pots and clothe? No... the warlord wanted something of a different nature.

At the councilor's continued silence, the merchant stopped making mention of various items. "But, I can see that none of this interests you," Swindle grinned, leading the pair of them further down the hall. "What you want is something a little more...special, after all. The perfect kind of item for an elite mech like yourself."

Soundwave's visor flashed as Swindle walked toward a steel door. With another sleazy look, the tan mech pulled out a ring of keys; inserting the largest and most rusty into the door's keyhole and unlocking it with a loud thump. The door was opened with a nasty grind, granting them entrance to yet another thin, black hallway. Swindle gestured for the other Decepticon to go before him, and Soundwave obliged, but not without caution. The merchant had a terrible reputation for dealing out messy ends to the ones he felt interfered with business.

Swindle did not do any such thing though, and the councilor enjoyed himself a relatively quiet trip down into the building's depths.

The hallway ended when it opened up into another room; this one as wide as it was long, and filled with numerous cages. Things shuffled within the shadows of these cells, things that Soundwave could not see at this moment in time. His guide took the only oil lamp off the wall and moved further into the room. "As you can see, we've had a fairly good haul this season," Swindle explained. The lamp's light fell onto the cages, exposing the creatures within. Some were odd monsters, of fur and teeth, that snarled or squawked from the illumination. What surprised Soundwave most though was the other cages... bound, and in some cases gagged, were various 'bots, of all manner of size and model. The telepath recognized them immediately as slaves.

"Slaves for every occasion!," the merchant exclaimed merrily. "We have ones for cleaning, cooking, manual labour...and for more _intimate_ work, if you're seeking such." Swindle let his optics shutter suggestively, that sick smirk turning into a leer on his face. "Please, please," he waved eagerly, "Take a look around and see if anything catches your fancy. This lot over here, is especially lovely. A whole batch of sealed 'bots! Had to keep them far away from the others... wouldn't want to damage such profitable property..."

Swindle hurried further into the room, the lamp light swaying with the merchant's quick steps. Soundwave though only followed at a slower pace, not at all intrigued by the other Decepticon's merchandise. He had found out all that he cared to this evening; he could make his report for Megatron come the morning. Snouts and shaking servos poked from between the bars, reaching for the telepath. The sight of such grubby appendages annoyed the councilor, who made sure to keep far away from either. Only one cell did not have pleading digits poking out from the darkness.

Soundwave stopped, inclining his helm slightly towards this cage.

He did not even ponder to think it empty, because he could sense life huddled within it, but there was no sound of thought, which greatly perplexed the mech. Coming to a decision, the silent Decepticon approached the cell.

"So that's where you've gotten off to." Swindle sidled up to the telepath, lamp swaying in his servos. The circle of light chased the darkness off, allowing Soundwave to see which creature occupied this cage. To his surprise, it was another mech -an Autobot, to be exact- unclothed, with his arms bound behind his winged back and his mouth spread wide around a gag. Half-shuttered optics turned to the two Decepticons, barely acknowledging their existence.

"Oh, you don't want this one," the merchant said, trying to catch the councilor's attention. "He's lost certain merits, I'm sad to say... Very unfortunate indeed, because he is one of the few of his kind with wings, making them a rare find indeed. He would have been quite a winner too, with the lovely build."

Swindle shook his helm, spitting distastefully. "Never pay good coin for a motley crew to do your hunting for you. Those buffoons decided to have themselves a sample. Not that he wasn't already somewhat aged anyhow... but still! They've cost me thousands of credits and damaged my wares as well! I don't know how I'll ever sell this wreck now... only thing he'll be good for is scrubbing floors I suppose..."

The Autobot turned his helm away, once more staring into the corner of his cell. With that motion, Soundwave found his focus returning; the dents and scuff marks coming to his attention. He could easily see the damage that had been inflicted on this mech, and a slight prodding into the merchant's mind elaborated on the details.

"Inquiry: how much?"

"He's not useful for anything else, really, I mean- wait, what?" The sudden question startled the tan Decepticon from his ramblings, who shuttered his optics stupidly for a couple astroseconds. Uncertainly, he looked at the councilor. "Sir, I must insist, I have plenty of young and healthy virgins to pick from... any of which would be better than this broken-in piece of scrap. Surely you would like one of those 'bots better."

Soundwave turned an annoyed look to Swindle, again repeating his question. "Inquiry: how much?"

"Well... uh," Swindle lifted a servo to his chin, glancing quickly at the caged Autobot. "Well, considering the state that he is in, and taking into account his rarity... I'd say about two hundred thousand credits."

Much too high a price for a "broken-in piece of scrap" but Soundwave was not about to barter with the infuriating merchant. It was already obvious to the telepath that the smaller mech was desperately trying to make a profit, while at the same time being relieved that was someone was taking this worthless merchandise out of his servos. Besides, it wasn't like he did not have the coin enough to pay for such a purchase. With a quick motion, the larger Decepticon slipped a servo into his robe, pulling out his purse. He tossed the heavy sack into Swindle's greedy, waiting servos, before turning his attention back to the Autobot. "Fact: shall take him."

"Right away, sir!," Swindle grinned, hooking the lamp onto a ring jutting from the cage; grabbing his keys and hurriedly opening the cell door. With not much gentleness, the merchant crouched into the cage, yanking the Autobot to his pedes and dragging him out of his prison. The battered mech obliged to the rough treatment silently, barely even shuttering his optics as he was thrust toward Soundwave.

"If you'd like, councilor," the merchant was grinning still, "For a small additional fee, I can get him cleaned up and dressed before you leave."

Soundwave merely pulled a smaller purse out from his robes, handing it to the tan mech. "Thank you very kindly, sir!," Swindle bowed quickly. "Please, let me escort you back to the lounge, where you might enjoy a warm glass of high-grade while you wait." He pulled a chain down from between the two cages, securing it to the collar about the Autobot's neck cables, before collecting his lamp and leading them back to the room's door. The telepath followed quietly, his gaze never straying far from his newest purchase.

**xxXxXxx**

The lounge was a chaotic mix of elegant couches and persian rugs, adorned with plush throw pillows and soft silks; all of their individuals colours and definable region marks clashing in a torrent of design that jarred the looking optic. Heavy, perfumed smoke filled the room, coming from the sticks of incense burning on various small, round tables; blurring everything around the edges. Though there was a window through which light filtered through hazily, several more oil lamps were burning, increasing the heat and drowsiness of the area. Soundwave, beginning to feel a processor-ache coming on, wanted nothing more than to escape this offensive mockery of fortune that the room tried to masquerade as. His glass of promised high-grade, and accompanying jug, sat untouched on the little table by his side. He could not bear to touch it, let alone think about it, while he waited for that greasy merchant to return.

It seemed unlikely that Swindle would try to cross him now that he had bought an "unsellable" product, but the councilor was not about to put anything past the smaller Decepticon. Dealers like that, especially underground dealers, did not have much care for elitists. It was all about the coin... and if Soundwave could part with so much for a broken slave, who was to say who else might do the same?

The telepath seized that train of thought as he sensed the merchant's presence -a well of thoughts mostly consisting of calculations and product taxes. Quickly, Soundwave muted the rest, not caring to glean too far into the other mech's mind, unless the context involved himself, his lord and any attempts of assassination. True to his readings, Swindle turned the corner, pushing his newly acquired slave before him.

"Here you go, my lord," Swindle smiled sickeningly. "Your new pet."

Soundwave did not reply, his attention fixed wholly on the Autobot. In the excess light, the mech's beauty was much more recognizable. Cleaned and waxed well, light gleamed off the slave's plating, highlighting the arch of his helm and chevron. Captivating, ice blue optics stood out on handsome red features; startling behind the glittering frames positioned neatly upon the bridge of his olfactory sensor. Glasses that Soundwave was sure had not been there before... A simple, dull burgundy robe covered his frame now, billowing about his pedes and hiding his servos from view. Though the material would look horrendous on others, it could barely subtract from the Autobot's looks, especially when it flowed neatly down his curves; white, glossy wings fluttering intermittently behind him. That ugly, steel collar was still about the mech's neck cables, but that was something that could be corrected at a later date.

"I hope that everything is to your liking."

The councilor lifted his helm slightly, glancing at the merchant. Swindle's grin had grown more, a knowing glimmer in his odd, purple optics. Annoyed, Soundwave flicked his helm quickly at the tan mech, reaching forward and taking the chain from his greedy servos. He led himself and the Autobot to the front door, Swindle's cheerful farewell following at his pedes. He did not reply back; stepping out into the light of a busy Iacon.

Decepticons moved back and forth before him; most dressed in fine clothe like himself, and also toting servants and slaves. Barely any gave him a glance, and when they did, they were quick to look away again. Staring at the Warlord's chief staff could be considered a crime on any given orn. Soundwave did not even have to call for his carriage, before it was pulling up to the merchant's doorstep; footman jumping down quickly and opening the door for his master. The telepath quickly looked over each of his servants' processors, and finding no ill thoughts there, climbed into the carriage, pulling his slave in behind him. The door was closed again, the blue mech seating himself across from the Autobot, as the carriage rolled into motion.

Things were silent between them.

The slave did not utter a word -as was typical of most who had resigned themselves to their fate- and Soundwave was currently preoccupied with studying his newest possession further. The councilor attempted to read the other's thoughts, but as before in Swindle's basement, the Autobot did not seem to exude any conscious or subconscious musings. There was simply a blankness, layering a blanket of tumultuous emotions, so chaotic and vague through the veil covering them, that they were hardly to be understood let alone trusted.

Perplexed by this, Soundwave folded his servos on his lap restlessly, determined to understand this mech who could defy his natural-born gift.

**xxXxXxx**

"Good evening, lord." His servants bowed as he strode between the front doors; keeping their optics to the tiled floor, even as they straightened up again. None commented on the Autobot trailing slowly behind Soundwave, instead moving forward to either close the door or else take their master's cloak. The telepath allowed them to do their duties, before gesturing to one of the quiet 'bots. At the Decepticon's beckon, the femme hurried forward, bowing again subserviently.

"Order: prepare a room for this new slave in my private hallways," he commanded, "Facing the gardens."

"Right away, lord," the servant replied, bowing again, before turning and padding away lightly to comply to the councilor's demand. Glad that motion was now accomplished, Soundwave grasped the Autobot by the elbow, gently guiding them down the limestone hallway on his immediate left.

"Fact: this is my villa. Status: own thirty acres of land within the city; fifty more outside of Iacon," the Decepticon said, curious to know how his slave would react to such information. "Duty: act as councilor to the mighty, Emperor Megatron. Advise him in all manner of subjects and keep him informed him of all affairs within and without the city. May his reign be eternal."

There was no change in the other's processor, with perhaps the exception of shifting emotions. Outwardly, only those dim optics shuttered at him; their owner still silent.

Soundwave frowned behind his battle mask, turning his attention back front again. Their trip was short -the telepath had wanted to bring the slave to his changing rooms, so he might dress him in something more appropriate and remove that hideous collar from his neck. Three mechs were waiting there when they arrived, one a servant, and the other two slaves. They all bowed at their master's entrance, keeping their gazes lowered as they stepped forward to tend to the blue mech.

"Negative," Soundwave told them. He pushed the Autobot forward. "Demand: change him into suitable attire." Their helms nodded at the command, before they grasped the new slave and brought him before the large mirrors set against the room's farthest wall.

The councilor watched as the mechs set about their task silently; undressing the Autobot and picking up various articles of clothe. They held each to the winged mech's frame, making their judgements on the colour and style. In their processors, Soundwave could hear their reverence for this new slave's beauty, and the desire to make sure that he was pleasing for their master. Eventually, they settled on a deep wine robe, with silver and gold hemming. A complimentary silk scarf of the softest lilac, adorned with a leafy pattern in silver and lime green thread, was tied tightly about the slave's slim waist. His staff used small, feather brushes to dust off any stray strand or fleck of dirt; one slave bringing out a pocket jar of ground moonstone and lightly applying the glittering powder to the Autobot's cheek arches.

Only one thing remained: that ugly, steel collar.

The mechs brought out a pair of screwdrivers, quickly undoing the three large bolts positioned at the left, right and back of the collar. Creaking, the metal came apart, falling into the attendants' servos easily. They tossed away the scrap, running a damp clothe along the winged slave's neck cables, and cleaning away all dirt and grime. Once they were certain it was satisfactory, one of the mechs padded over to the dresser sitting in the corner of the room; opening a drawer and removing a small, lacquered box from within it. They opened it once they had returned to the others' side, displaying the golden braid within.

Carefully, a slave brought it out, looping it around the Autobot's neck and fastening it place with three golden bolts, similar to the steel collar. The finishing piece was a sheer veil that they draped over the slave's helm, letting it flutter down around his wings. With a bow, all four faced their master.

Soundwave took a moment to inspect the beautiful sight in front of him, before dismissing the others. They quickly left, helms bent respectively. Once he was sure they were gone, the Decepticon walked forward, until he was pede to pede with the Autobot. To his astonishment, the other mech did not look away or bow his helm, but instead kept his unfaltering gaze fixed on the councilor. It was an experience that Soundwave could not entirely decide if he liked or hated.

He decided not to comment on it in either case.

His golden fingers lifted, fingering the new gold braid about the slave's neck. It was tight to the Autobot's throat, so as to ensure that he could not slip or break it off of his own free will. Weaved into the precious metal were glyphs and symbols, declaring his house and status. This proclaimed that the Autobot belonged to him, and only those with a death wish would dare lay a servo on him otherwise. "Status: are now part of my house," Soundwave informed the winged mech. "Welcome."

Something alive flashed behind those polished lenses. It drew the telepath's attentions, before it was gone again.

Cocking his helm slightly, the Decepticon continued to study his slave. "Fact: can not call you slave forever. Inquiry: do you have a designation?"

The winged mech shuttered his optics more quickly this time; a sure sign that he was a lot more responsive than he seemed. Soundwave, curious, decided to pursue his line of question.

"Inquiry: designation?," he asked again.

The Autobot did not seem as if he would answer at all for a moment. But then he lowered his gaze a fraction, saying in the sweetest undertones, "My name is... Tracks..."

Tracks... The councilor mulled over the name, still having yet to remove his optics or servo from the other mech. Such a lovely name, and an even more beautiful vocalizer. A rarity, indeed, to have such cultured tones like that in a simple slave. Soundwave smirked a little behind his battle mask, releasing the golden collar and instead grasping the Autobot's servo. He would enjoy discovering more about this 'bot.

"Order: come, Tracks. Shall show you the rest of your home."


	2. Chapter 2

This was the moment he had been expecting.

Tracks entered into the large room, his optics noting the massive canopy bed and its lush pillows, dressed with fresh, clean sheets for its newest occupant. Everything had been scrubbed, the lacquered furniture dusted and polished; various articles of mundane and hobby set neatly on the armour and vanity. Incense burned and floral petals had been spread across the vermillion tiles and on the silk sheets. On the walls were painted breath-taking murals, depicting various scenes, ranging from great battles and noble debates, to private serenades between lovers and fools within the darkness of the night. The entire room seemed to gleam in the dying light of the orn, bathed in passionate fire from the light pouring in through the large, bay windows.

The Autobot did not bother to look out them.

He knew the only view they would provide would be of stone walls and creeping vegetation. The specifics of his newest imprisonment.

"Status: hope everything is to your satisfaction," the Decepticon said. Tracks did not respond. He could feel the other mech's optics on him as he padded further into the room. He waited, almost expectantly, for the moment when this stranger would come in after him and use him in the purpose that he had been bought for.

Surprisingly, it did not come.

"Fact: servant shall be along shortly to bring you your meal. Goal: refuel and recharge well. Shall see you in the morning."

The Autobot turned around slowly, wings fluttering slightly as he gazed upon his new "master." The Decepticon was silently looking back, his emotions unreadable through that visor and battle mask. "Good evening, Tracks," the blue mech said, inclining his helm slightly at the slave. He stepped away from the doorway, grabbing the door's handle and gently pulling it close behind him.

Not once did the councilor tear his optics off of Tracks, nor did he speak another word.

Only after the latch had clicked audibly, and the Decepticon walked away, did the winged mech sink into the cushioning of the thin seat set at the foot of his bed. His dead optics shuttered at the shut door, something flashing across their depths before again disappearing.

**xxXxXxx**

The guard was doing his rounds when he noticed something slivering through the shadows of the pavilion. It was quick and quiet, remaining close to the bushes and blossoming flowers that made up his lord's garden. Thinking it to be a spy or assassin, the guard tightened his grip on his spear and gave silent chase to the flitting darkness. He twisted around columns and past the thriving vegetation, quickly getting closer and closer to the unknown creature. When a flash of white met his optics under the moons' pure light, is when the guard made his presence known.

"Halt!," he ordered. The shadow jumped, spinning around before bolting off in the opposite direction of the guard. The Decepticon ran after him, cutting the distant between them within mere astroseconds. When he was near enough that he could almost reach out and touch the stranger, the guard swung the butt of his spear back behind himself; clubbing the intruder straight across the backstruts. The other fell to the ground silently, tumbling slightly with the force of their momentum.

An orange glow cut through the darkness, making its way quickly to the pair; another guard had heard the commotion, and lighted his lamp. "What is it?," he asked, coming up to the other Decepticon's side. Together, they stared down at the unknown 'bot. Red faceplates lifted slowly, dead optics staring at the two mechs unflinchingly.

"He must be the councilor's new slave," the second Decepticon commented. He lifted his lamp higher, studying the fine robe the other one wore -now dirty from his fall to the ground- catching the glimmer of the gold slave braid around his throat. "The rumors really are true. He is beautiful."

"So what?," the first guard snapped. He reached to his hip, unwinding his whip. "It is our duty to punish the slaves that attempt to run away. New or not, he was most certainly fleeing, and that is worthy of fifteen lashes, at least." The mech walked forwards, drawing his arm back again. "Stay where you are, glitch; it'll be easier on you."

"Order: _stop_."

Those two words cut through the night like a jagged blade, tearing at the tension that had filled the garden and replacing it with an impregnable silence and a touch of dread. "Councilor," the two guards said, immediately facing the blue Decepticon and dropping to a knee.

Soundwave looked at each of them silently, his cold gaze fixed firmly on the whip held in the one mech's servo. Glancing upwards, they both noticed this, and the first guard tried to explain himself. "M-my apologies for the disruption, my lord. But we caught this slave attempting to run, and law dictates that we-"

"Punishment: unnecessary," the councilor cut off the guard's frantic rambling. He stared at them both for a moment longer, before turning his attention to the winged mech still crouched on the ground. Tracks had turned his own optics to stare at the newest addition to the group. "Fact: shall deal with this one myself. Order: inform the others as well, that all punishment for this mech will be mete out by myself. Consequences will follow if my command is disobeyed. Dismissed."

Glad for the simple scolding, the guards quickly rose again; the second mech handing his lamp to Soundwave before both returned to their posts. Their processors reeked of fear and worry, even as they left. Tension increasing, the telepath turned to face his slave. Even when he pressed, there was nothing he could read from the Autobot, and that was perhaps more infuriating than the others' actions. Tracks was still looking up at him, refusing to budge from his spot. Silently, Soundwave held out his servo for the slimmer mech, only for it to be ignored completely. Taking alternative action, the councilor simply reached down further and pulled the slave to his pedes.

"Actions: futile," he told Tracks. "Escape: impossible. Fact: you shall remain here as my slave until I have either grown tired of you or you have bought your freedom. Running does not help your case."

The mention of freedom seemed to spark something within the Autobot, because for the second time that evening, he finally spoke. "Freedom?," he hissed, lip components curling back distastefully at the word. "Do not try to play me for a fool. I know that there is no freedom to be had. Why would you simply let me go when you can easily sell me again if I should eventually bore you?"

Tracks tugged his arm free, hurriedly putting space between himself and the Decepticon. Soundwave attempted a second time to prod into the slave's helm, but found the thoughts to still be lacking within. How could a being so successfully block him out? Was it a conscious effort, or entirely accidental? His growing frustration at this anomaly added fuel to his irritation this night, and the councilor stepped forward again; grabbing Tracks' arm once more and tugging the Autobot back along through the garden. The winged mech stumbled along silently; all of his emotion and life seeming to have been sealed up within him again. He did not even react when their destination turned out to be his new room.

Soundwave pushed Tracks ahead of him into the room, quickly closing and bolting the door behind him. He set the lamp down onto the vanity, grabbing the slave again and moving him to the bed. For an astrosecond, he thought Tracks might fight him on the path, but he remained resolutely nonchalant; even when the telepath forced him to sit on the edge of the mattress. Frowning behind his battle mask, Soundwave forced his fingers under the Autobot's chin, lifting his faceplates to the light. What he saw there made him scowl further, and the Decepticon withdrew for a moment to collect the basin and clothe set earlier upon the vanity; untouched, by the looks of it.

He said nothing still as he knelt on the floor before the winged mech, dipping the clothe into the cold water and wringing it out firmly. What the councilor did next would have been a motion many would be shocked to witness... Soundwave, as if it were the most casual thing in the world, began to clean Tracks' face. The Autobot whipped his helm back at the action, and found a golden servo wrapping firmly about the back of his neck cables, keeping him from struggling. Soundwave calmed after this moment of rebellion passed; his forceful pressure decreasing until he was gently wiping at the slave's cheek arches. The powder from before came away at his tender ministrations, along with the dirt that was from the other's fall. Already, the Decepticon could see the scuffing on the plating. In the morning, it would be sore and sensitive to the touch, and altogether unsightly.

"Action: apologize for the guards' treatment. Fact: shall not happen again,"

Tracks pursed his lip components at the telepath's words, his optics narrowing somewhat, but he did not speak on them this time.

Soundwave himself refrained from any further comments. He wet the clothe once more, patting softly at the other's bruised plating, almost hypnotized by the ice blue optics glaring at him fiercely. On any other, such a stare would have meant a swift and painful whipping for daring to be so disobedient. The Decepticon was loathe to admit that on the Autobot, it was almost a charming quality. Certain that he had cleaned Tracks enough, Soundwave withdrew his servo; collecting the basin and returning it once more to the vanity.

"Order: recharge," the blue mech said, dimming the lamp. "Long orn awaits."

His slave did not say anything, optics glowing brightly in the faint light and wings twitching behind him angrily ever few astroseconds. Soundwave ignored both, leaning back against the wall beside the vanity, his gaze fixed directly ahead at the Autobot. The kliks passed and it seemed evident that Tracks would rather spend the entire night glaring at the Decepticon than sleep, but even his determination could not overpower his exhaustion, and the slave eventually slumped onto the mattress, slipping deep into recharge.

Once he was sure that Tracks was really asleep, Soundwave left.

**xxXxXxx**

The following orn started as any other. Soundwave left a small list of duties for his Chief of Staff, expecting the servant to know exactly how to carry them out in a way that was satisfactory to the councilor. On that list, were special made exceptions and guidelines in regard to the Autobot still asleep in his room. Confident that nothing disastrous would occur while he was gone, Soundwave took his carriage uphill to the Emperor's palace. Court today was as sparse as it usually was. A small band of courtiers flocked about the large hall, their chatter barely a murmur over the tiny group of musicians playing in the east corner. Servants and slaves moved between them all, cleaning, or otherwise tending personally to the lords and ladies. Surrounded by his own gaggle of attendees, with either food, drink or fan in servo, sat Megatron; Emperor of Kaon.

The silver Decepticon was the very picture of power and lethal force, even as he lounged easily upon his black throne; violet cape spread across his wide shoulders and half-shuttered optics taking in the audience before him.

"Ahh, Soundwave...," the smooth baritone passed the quirked lip components as the councilor approached the podium. "I didn't think you would be coming to me so early in the orn."

Soundwave stared up at the warlord, his expression mutely perplexed. He did not dare press upon Megatron's processor, already well aware of how efficiently the other Decepticon could shield his thoughts from the telepath. Besides, such an action would lead to a heavy punishment for daring to act so bold with the Emperor. Megatron's glanced irritably at his throng of servants, waving them off with a flippant shake of his servo, before turning his growing smirk back to the blue mech.

"Word in the court is that you have a new slave, my friend," Megatron elaborated. "One who is quite a beauty if the rumors are to be believed."

Ah... Soundwave really shouldn't have been that surprised. As a top-ranking official in the Emperor's court, there would be many optics on him -some of them even hired informants, meant to keep tabs on him, such as he kept tabs on others. Megatron was efficient in retaining his power, if nothing else. Twenty-four cycles was more than enough for news to have circled back around to the silver warlord about his subordinate's latest buy.

"I take this to mean then that Swindle is keeping up on his business odds and ends then. No plans to move out of Kaon, I hope?"

"Negative," Soundwave replied. He bowed quickly, coming closer. "Status: details documented here." Before he could even rest his pede on the first step of the podium, a shadow was slithering out from behind Megatron's chair, moving forward to intercept the report.

"Hello, Soundwave. How do you fare this orn?." Shockwave stepped half-way down the podium, his servo held out to receive the scroll. The other Decepticon gave it to him immediately, staring the cyclops square into his optic.

"Orn: progressing well," Soundwave answered. The assassin gave one flick of his helm, before turning back around and handing the report to Megatron with a bow. After the warlord had taken the document, Shockwave straightened, reclaiming his post to the left of the throne.

"Still, to leave your estate so early to bring me a mundane report..." Megatron shook his helm in mock disappointment. "Is your new slave so unsatisfactory? I would have thought you'd be well into recharge even now, after a long and eventful night."

The subtle, lewd comment brought more than a few different reactions. "Ewwwww," hissed one irritating voice in particular. Starscream stormed up to the podium quickly, having entered into the hall from one of the numerous corridors. The commander made a face as he drew up to the other Decepticons; his arms crossing over his chassis. "This dead sparkplug fragging any bot?! The very thought makes me want to purge!"

"Ah, Starscream...," Megtron almost sighed. He looked at the soldier blankly. "I was wondering when you would be showing up again."

The winged mech turned to the Emperor, his disgust becoming down-right hatred. "Well, my _glorious leader_ ," he cooed sickeningly. "Perhaps I would not be inclined to bask in your delightful presence each and every morning, if it weren't for the fact that _someone_ still refuses to acknowledge that the idiot Lugnut is not fit for the role of sub-commander, and needs to be quickly demoted back to the ranks!"

"There is a more painless way to submit your complaints, Commander," Shockwave said dully from the side. "One that would involve less of your screeching and wasted time on both parties."

This of course, drew a horrendous cry of indignation from Starscream. "Be quiet, Starscream," Megatron growled. "We were having a lovely discussion about Soundwave's new slave before you arrived. Were we not Soundwave?"

"...Affirmative," the telepath was slow to reply. He tried not to look at the commander, feeling dark, murderous thoughts seep into his processor from the irate mech. Starscream, sneering, turned his attention back to the warlord.

"Is that so?"

Megatron smirked cruelly, his red optics catching Soundwave's gaze. "Indeed. I was just about to propose to Soundwave, that if he found his new slave so unpleasing, I would be happy to take him off his servos. A winged Autobot would look absolutely stunning at my pedes I think. Wouldn't you say so, Soundwave?"

The councilor was finding himself growing tense as this banter continued. The thought of giving Tracks away, to anyone, let alone Megatron, was a thought that did not sit well with the Decepticon at all. He couldn't even be certain if his lord was being honest in his interest in the Autobot or just taunting Starscream further. All the same... "Fact: if Lord Megatron wishes, shall give him Autobot." Megatron was his Emperor and you did not deny them the things they wanted.

Obviously cocky now, the silver warlord turned to his commander, arrogant smirk almost spread across his entire cheekplates. "Such a loyal mech...unlike others I know. _Commander._ "

Starscream's wings hitched up behind him, trembling avidly with his rage. Through clenched denta, he said, "Might I be excused, _oh, supreme and wondrous leader_?," to which Megatron thankfully waved the Decepticon off. With a quick and mocking bow, Starscream hastily left; his thoughts screaming insults and threats to the very air. Soundwave frowned behind his battle mask, somewhat annoyed that he was not given the same silent reprieve as the others were.

"You may go as well, Soundwave," Megatron announced, rising to his pedes. The Emperor swept his cape behind himself, not paying attention to the gaggle of servants that moved to be on the ready, should their master beckon for them. "I'm sure you'll want to return to your estate to check on your new slave."

The councilor bowed, ignoring the lecherous gleam in his lord's optic. With his freely given dismissal, Soundwave made his way back down the hall and to the courtyard out front. It could be said he was practically relieved as he climbed into the carriage. Just the thought of returning home was enough to soothe the Decepticon.

It of course did not deter from the fact that he wished to check on Tracks as well.


	3. Chapter 3

The sound of the door opening was what had Tracks jolting out of recharge.

He threw himself up off the mattress, turning to the doorway. His angry optics and bared denta did not land on the Decepticon who had bought him though, but a small, pink femme with sparkling blue optics similar to his own. "G-good morning," she said, her smile a little concerned as she stared at the other Autobot.

Tracks felt all his rage fade as numbness overtook him again; he turned his helm away from the femme, looking out his window to the gardens beyond.

"My name is Arcee," the Autobot said to his side. No doubt she curtseyed a little when she introduced herself. "And from now on, I shall be your maidservant."

She stepped further into the room, coming directly into the mech's line of sight. "I apologize for waking you, but breakfast is ready, if you would like to eat. There are also many other things to do today, if you wish to partake in them. I'd be glad to show y-"

"Why are you here?," Tracks asked, cutting off the servant's ramblings. He glanced at her quickly, noting the golden braid around her throat. Catching his glance, Arcee lifted a servo, touching her slave collar.

"Yes, I am a slave, the same as you," she smiled softly. "But you must forgive me when I say that I do not mind. The master has been good to me, to all of us, all these years. You might not believe it, but he is not like the others."

The other slave did not respond to that, looking out the window again. Arcee bowed her helm, quickly moving past and to the armoire. "We'll start with a bath and then getting dressed. After which, you are free to do as you wish for the orn. Breakfast today is fresh, baked bread with molasses and fruit, but if you are not hungry, then we can wait until later to get something to eat."

The femme looked through the articles of clothe hanging in the armoire before selecting an outfit of red and silver. "We have such a poor selection at the moment...," she sighed to herself, "But the Master will take you out for shopping soon no doubt, if not buy you some new clothes himself."

Arcee turned around, starting a little when she realized that Tracks was now standing and facing her. "I-i didn't even hear you stand...," she mumbled to herself as her fear tittered away.

The mech's optics were like dull mirrors, but his wings were high behind him, fluttering momentarily every few astroseconds. "Why," he asked again, "Are you here?"

The Autobot femme looked apologetically at the other slave. "I'm sorry... Master Soundwave thought that you might like some company. I presume he thought that if you were with another of your kind, then perhaps you might not be so rash," she explained. The winged 'bot's optics narrowed, a firm scowl coming to his lip components.

"Wanting my freedom is _'rash'_?," he hissed.

Arcee backed against the armoire quickly as the other Autobot marched towards her, looming over her in a fit of sudden rage. "I refuse to remain here any longer and play doll for this sick fragger," Tracks growled, knocking the clothes out of her servos. " _I am no one's whore_."

Quickly, the mech spun back around and stormed out of the room. The femme, scooping the clothes back up hurriedly, rushed after him. "W-wait!," she called desperately. But the winged slave refused to acknowledge her cries. Arcee followed after his heels all the same, even as they moved from hallway to hallway, the other servants and slaves staring at them in confusion.

She could not answer their inquisitive stares, more concerned about the mech that she was supposed to be tending to from this orn forward.

**xxXxXxx**

"Request: ...repeat that."

Soundwave looked first to the room, and then to the femme by his side. Arcee, her optics lowered contritely, repeated her last statement. "He refuses to eat anything, my lord," she mumbled quickly, "Nor will he change, bath, or otherwise leave this room. After this morning, he... well..."

The maidservant gave up trying to explain, recognizing that she could not really tell Soundwave what was going on, when she herself didn't really have a clue. Chasing after the other slave had been an ordeal in itself this morning, but the winged mech must have tired himself out eventually, because he just circled back to his room, where he then refused to move. Arcee had tried to bring him some lunch, but that was quickly tossed to the floor, and any mention of grooming or the like was met with an icy glare. Perplexed, and more than a little anxious, the femme had retreated; giving the other Autobot his space.

The councilor though, had a fair idea of what the reasons might be. Slavery was not a kind fate, even to the ones kept in his household. Some were not nearly as lucky as his slaves, and to someone robbed of their freedom, so late in their life, it was no surprise that they would fight with everything they had to regain what was stolen from them. Tracks, evidently, had somewhat given up on physically escaping. No doubt, the guards posted at every exit and window within the villa would have upset the Autobot during his rampage this morning. So it appeared that the winged mech would take the next alternative route open to him: he would let himself waste away, until he was either sold again, or he died from the process.

Neither were things Soundwave wanted to happen.

Arcee remained behind as the Decepticon stepped into the room, respectively giving her Master and charge the privacy they deserved. Those dead optics turned to him as he entered, once again drawing Soundwave in. He could barely comprehend why such void orbs could sparkle still like they did. Not even bothering to try and probe the other's processor (again, there was nothing but silence), the councilor instead walked closer to Tracks, before pausing a few feet from the bed.

"Inquiry: you are not hungry?," he asked.

Tracks was resolutely minimal in his responses. Not even his wings were fluttering. Soundwave cycled a long intake, folding his arms behind his back. "Fact: If you should require nourishment, Arcee will get you something immediately. Anytime of the orn. Inquiry: would you care for anything else in the meantime?"

Again, their was no reply.

The telepath inclined his helm politely to the Autobot, before turning and leaving the room. Arcee stood just a little a ways down the hall; at the sight of her master, she padded up to him, glancing quickly at the other slave's door. "My lord, is he-"

Soundwave shook his helm.

The femme sighed quietly, looking at her pedes. "Arcee," the councilor began. The maidservant perked up at the call of her name. Looking her firmly in the optic, the Decepticon continued, "Order: are to tend to Tracks. Should he decide he wishes to eat, you are to fetch him some food immediately. Inquiry: do you understand?"

"Yes, yes!," Arcee replied, bowing. "Of course, my lord!" Soundwave merely nodded, leaving the slave to her duties and heading for his own study.

**xxXxXxx**

His fuel tanks groaned hungrily, making themselves vocal as they churned painfully. Tracks shuttered his optics slowly, staring blankly at the wall as he laid stretched across his bed. His systems demanded that he move; that he give into their demands to feed. But, food would only give him strength, nourish his battered frame... allow him to live longer... That was something the Autobot did not want. If the Decepticon kept him only because he was beautiful, then he would scar himself in anyway he could. Starvation, especially, had such a lovely way of strangling the chassis and emancipating a 'bot's appearance.

The Autobot shuttered his optics tightly as pain lanced through his abdomen -the second stages of hunger.

With shaking arms, Tracks pushed himself up off the mattress, setting his pedes onto the floor. The pain kept him from sleeping, but he refused to give in and eat something, even if to quell the agony, so he would have to find something else to occupy his processor with in the meantime. Quietly, the slave crossed his room, opening his door. No guards stood outside of it, he found to his surprise, though there was that other Autobot slave curled up and recharging at the foot of his door. Lifting up the hem of his robe, Tracks simply stepped over Arcee's unconscious form, before aimlessly wandering down the halls.

The hallways were dark and empty as he walked, with barely the wind stirring a sound in the corridors. Unsurprisingly really, since it was well past sunset, and possibly somewhere in the early hours of morning. No guards came to accost him during his wanderings, though Tracks was certain they were still around. He could always hear them, as if from a distance, but still did not see a single one. A shadow seemed to move among the others, drawing the Autobot's attention. He came to a slow stop as his helm turned to the fleeting spectre, before the slave was padding softly forwards, in the general area from where he first saw the shadow move.

The shadow was actually prelude to a doorway; which was tucked away neatly into an alcove, pitch-black, and away from the lamplight of the hall. It was open just a crack, and the light pouring out from the unknown room was what had the shadows flickering, making them seem alive.

Hunger forgotten entirely in the face of his curiosity, Tracks walked up to the door, leaning in closely. He set his optic to the crack, peering inside. After the initial glare had faded some, he saw that the room within was an office of sorts. Hunched over the desk, working studiously, was none other than Soundwave. The Decepticon did not tear his attention from his paper, keeping the rhythm of his swaying feather pen going, as he unrolled another segment of the scroll; starting on that section as he continued his report. It was a peculiar sight, to see the other mech deeply immersed in so natural a task.

The winged slave slowly pulled away, feeling something vague squirm within him. He didn't quite know what it was, nor did he really care to find out. His emotions were like ash... dark, clouting and utterly useless. It was better if they all just blew away, he figured.

Feeling the numbness grow stronger, overpowering even his distressed fuel tanks, Tracks turned and continued his random stroll through the villa.

**xxXxXxx**

_Better if they're gone..._

Soundwave lifted his helm as the faint words brushed along his processor, whispered from another's mind. Confused by the sudden thought, and the weakness with which it had been projected in, the Decepticon turned in his seat, gazing about the room. There was no one in here, save for himself, and the guards should have been too far away for him to hear anything from them, unless they were under great stress or being attacked. Since there was no alarm bell ringing, and the thought had been so soft as to be almost non-existent, Soundwave didn't think it was any of his guards.

But then where had it come from?

An image of his newly acquired slave came to mind.

The councilor tried to shake the idea off, but it was quickly gaining root within his processor. He had not heard a single thought drift from the Autobot's helm, nor could he properly discern any emotions from that mess of muddied conscience, though Soundwave was more than certain that Tracks was very much alive and thinking. The few moments where something slipped past the slave's facade were proof enough. But it seemed ridiculous that Tracks could even block his thoughts from the Decepticon. After all, how could he even know that his master was a telepath?

It would be nice though, a small voice whispered in his helm. Soundwave frowned behind his battle mask, turning forwards in his seat. He couldn't deny what the voice said. To finally be able to know what the Autobot was thinking, would give the telepath a much larger range with which to respond to the slave with; not to mention erase some of the unease he felt when faced with a processor that he simply could not read, no matter how hard he tried. As things were now, it was most certainly frustrating, and Soundwave almost wished he hadn't bought the winged mech in the first place.

If he had only kept on walking by that dark cell... hadn't stopped to peer inside...

Soundwave shook his helm a second time, picking up his pen once more. It was foolish to sit here and regret actions made in the past. There was no way they could be undone, and it was not as if he really had much to complain about. He would handle the things that would come, one by one, and hopefully, perhaps, Tracks would begin to trust him and stop being so stubborn.

And then maybe the Decepticon could figure out why an ignorant slave could avoid his invasions so easily...

**xxXxXxx**

After a small rest and being dressed for the day by his attendants, Soundwave made his way to Tracks' bedroom. Arcee stood outside the door, a tray of breakfast in her servos. The femme greeted him tiredly, looking somewhat drained, despite her clean appearance. The councilor barely had to glean her processor to find out that the maidservant had followed through with her duties and remained by the door all night; waiting, should her charge call on her. Such dedication would have to be rewarded, Soundwave noted.

"Inquiry: has there been any change?," he asked, looking to the closed door.

Arcee followed his gaze, sighing softly. "No, my lord," she replied. "He has not come out of his room, and still refuses to eat anything."

Soundwave debated silently for a moment, before walking forward and entering the room. Tracks was seated on the edge of his bed when the Decepticon entered. At the sound of his guest, the winged mech turned his helm to the councilor, optics shuttering slowly. "Good morning," Soundwave greeted. "Fact: is a beautiful day. Inquiry: Would you care for a stroll outside?"

Tracks merely turned his helm away at the offer.

Soundwave frowned, remaining where he stood for a few astroseconds longer, before he finally left. Closing the door behind him, he caught Arcee's gaze, and the femme's shoulders sagged at the silent response.

"My lord... what shall we do if he continues like this?," she hesitantly asked, glancing quickly up at the councilor, before dropping her optics to the floor again.

The Decepticon quietly mulled over the options available to him. "Fact: shall do nothing," he eventually answered. "Status: is his own choosing. Shall not interfere."

Arcee whipped her helm up at Soundwave, her lip components moving as she gaped in shock at the callous words. "B-but, my lord-!"

"Negative," Soundwave said, cutting off the slave's protests. "Order: shall not interfere. Actions opposite of command will be punishable. Inquiry: is that understood?"

The maidservant bowed slightly, taking care not to tip her tray. "Yes, my lord," she mumbled sadly.

The telepath nodded his helm, turning and starting down the other end of the hall.

**xxXxXxx**

The femme slave attempted to get him to eat.

Tracks watched as she came in every few hours, a tray in servo, and a dish on its glossy surface. No matter how enticing it smelt, or how much his aching fuel tanks begged for it, the mech refused to touch anything. It disheartened Arcee each time, but still, she was resilient.

She began to speak of her own life: about how she was young when fire and plaque had wiped out many in her town. She was taken into slavery shortly afterwards, and soon after that, bought by Soundwave. The Decepticon was a saint in her optics, because he had rescued her from the grunge of her "store life" and had swept her away before she could have been sold to a cruel master who would have no doubt whipped and raped her.

If the maidservant thought that these tales would lull the other Autobot into trusting this unknown mech, than she was sorely mistaken. All it did in fact, was stir flecks of disdain and disgust to this other slave who could let herself be so easily swayed by the Decepticon. And still, Tracks refused to eat.

Starting to lose her hope, Arcee once again left the room; the rising shadows of evening, the backdrop to the femme's exit.

Tracks didn't even bother to watch her go. His optics still fixed to the window before him, and the stretch of sky above that reminded him tortuously of the freedom he had lost.


	4. Chapter 4

Enough was enough.

"Aaah!" Tracks screamed as he was thrown into the tub, resurfacing a moment afterwards, his clothes clinging to his frame and spluttering up a storm. Desperately, he wiped at his optics and glasses before turning in the water, glaring fiercely as he faced the Decepticon standing at the tub's rim.

Soundwave stood there, his arms folded behind his back, silently nonchalant. Servants stood in astonishment along the back corner of the room, their attentions flickering from their master and to his slave, then back again.

"Inquiry: Do you wish to bathe yourself, or would you like some assistance?," the councilor asked, making it quite clear that one way or another, the Autobot _was_ going to get clean. Tracks said nothing, standing up in the tub, his gaze turning several degrees more frigid as steam wafted from the water. His wings were stiff and high behind him.

Nodding his helm in understanding, Soundwave shooed the servants out from the wash room. They went, still quiet and somewhat perplexed, throwing curious glances over their shoulders as they did. Tracks only gave them the barest notice as they went, before turning his icy scowl back to the Decepticon.

After a week of having that same indignant look cast his way any time food or bath was mentioned, the sight of it now did very little to bother Soundwave. "Status: lunch shall be waiting for when you are done bathing," he informed the slave, giving no room for debate. "Shall be waiting for you in the gardens when you are done. Fact: Arcee will guide you there."

Inclining his helm slightly, the councilor turned and started heading for the door. "Enjoy your bath," he said one last time before leaving entirely.

Tracks' fist curled at his side as the other mech disappeared; sinking back into the water and slapping it angrily.

**xxXxXxx**

Half a cycle later, Arcee was walking into the garden, a reluctant Tracks trailing behind. The femme was positively buzzing, no doubt overjoyed at the change of events. Perhaps not the kindest of methods -Soundwave barging into the room and literally tossing the winged mech over a shoulder plating, before proceeding to order him to wash and eat- but any change was good change in the maidservant's opinion.

The two were heading to a moderate-sized table that had been set in the gazebo, piled lavishly with many delicious and enticing dishes. Just the smell alone was enough to make a 'bot begin to salivate. Soundwave already sat waiting there; upon catching sight of both of his slaves, he rose to his pedes, waiting respectfully for Tracks to join him. Drawing to a stop just before the garden structure, Arcee bowed, smiling up at her master. "My lord," she announced formally, "Tracks."

"Request: come," the councilor said, gesturing for the Autobot mech to join him.

Tracks narrowed his optics, obviously still furious, but eventually stepped up into the gazebo, sitting across from the Decepticon. At the other's fairly agreeable action, Soundwave dismissed Arcee, sitting down himself. "Fact: you may help yourself to whatever you'd like," he offered, waving a servo above the table. "Inquiry: would you care for some wine?"

The slave did not decrease the vehemency of his glare, nor did he take his attentions off of the blue mech. "No," he replied tersely, when it became apparent that Soundwave was expecting a verbal response.

The rejection somewhat disappointed the councilor. It was an odd feeling indeed, but he brushed it aside quickly, squashing his budding frustration in the process. He had hoped that Arcee's company might better Tracks' mood, but the winged slave only seemed to have gotten much more tense in the past week. If it wasn't for the fact that Soundwave didn't want to leave the Autobot completely alone, then he might of assigned the femme some other duties instead.

After a klik or so more of their continuous staring, the multi-coloured mech was unable to stave off his hunger any longer. His fuel tanks literally groaned in agony, his optics glancing guiltily to the feast laid out below him.

"Status: go ahead," the telepath invited. "Eat."

He was again thrown a nasty glare, to which he decided to take alternative action against. Soundwave took the chance to pour himself a glass of wine, dishing a small selection of fruits onto his plate. At his own willingness to eat, a strange sort of behaviour overtook Tracks. The slave clenched his servos tightly on the table top, before he broke out into a sort of flurry, grabbing something from a dish here and there, taking a bite out of it, before throwing it down on his plate and reaching for something else. The councilor could only stare on, astonished by this act of ravenous feeding, lifting a servo and gently lowering the bottom of the Autobot's glass when he hurried to get a drink next.

"Careful: you will choke," he said. Those beautiful, blue optics met his over the rim of the glass, Tracks swallowing his mouthful before proceeding to scowl at the other.

He half-expected the slave to curse him or something once again, but no such response came. Baffled, but somewhat not concerned, Soundwave took this moment to study the winged mech. Obviously, the servants had returned to the wash room after the Autobot's bath, because it seemed unlikely that Tracks would have chosen the garment he now wore. He was dressed in a soft, cerulean robe, with a low-neck line that showed off bits of his gleaming chestplates. A raspberry coloured shawl, with blue-grey embroidery and tassels, was cinched across one shoulder tire with a golden pin in the image of a rose. The rest fluttered down his back, just behind his wings, and circling his waist. Today, the servants had even sought fit to put golden bangles on each of Tracks' wrists; their gems and warm metal caught the light, sending it reflecting in a million other directions like tiny, little sprites.

Even without the additional accessories, the winged mech would have been beautiful.

"Stop it," came the eventual hiss.

Soundwave lifted his gaze slightly, once more locking optics with Tracks. The Autobot's wings quivered behind him, his cheekplates flushed with a livid blush. "Stop looking at me like that," he continued, drawing his servos back to his lap and clenching them there. "Stop with the gazes, the games, the pleasantries... I know for what reason you've bought me for, so spare me the trouble of your foolishness!"

The telepath was confused. "Inquiry: what are you-"

Tracks leapt to his pedes, glaring down at his 'master'. "I am not some weak-willed buffoon like that simpering little femme!," he shouted, his optics flaring brightly in his fury. "I refuse to bow to you or spread my thighs like a single penny whore. If you want your frag so bad then you'll have to take it! But I refuse to suffer your stupid masquerade any longer!"

Grabbing fistfuls of his robe, the slave rushed out from the gazebo, stomping through the gardens. With no where else to go, no doubt Tracks would just circle back to his room after his anger had left him, but until then Soundwave would not give chase.

The Decepticon leaned back in his chair, his visor turned in the direction that the winged mech had rushed off in. He had not expected such heated words to come from that quiet mouth, or for the wave of raw and blistering emotions to assault his processor suddenly. They were still too conflicted for him to make out anything absolutely clear, but one thing was certain: Tracks was definitely enraged to be trapped like this, possibly a tad afraid as well. Soundwave's actions with the tub earlier hadn't helped matters either...

The councilor sighed softly. It seemed he had much to correct if he wanted the Autobot to see reason.

**xxXxXxx**

Seeing as the weather was fair the next orn, Soundwave thought to approach Tracks about a trip into the market square. He went after a quiet breakfast alone, knocking on the slave's door, waiting a moment before entering. Arcee was just finishing dressing Tracks when he came in. Blushing at the near incident, the femme quickly bowed, glancing at her charge before she hurried from the room. The winged mech barely acknowledged Soundwave as he looked over a shoulder tire.

"Inquiry: How are you?," the councilor asked, coming up to the vanity where the Autobot sat. The slave said nothing, turning his helm back to the mirror. His optics were flat and lifeless as he stared into his reflection.

It looked like it was going to be one of those days.

Soundwave decided to ignore this, holding his servo out for the other mech. "Come: we head for town," he said, not bothering to make a request of it this time. He did not wish for Tracks to refuse him, not after he had already made his plans for the orn. "Status: the carriage waits."

Along with his silence was a disturbing obedience. Tracks rose to his pedes, facing the telepath fully. When nothing was said, and winged mech made no other motion, Soundwave decided that this was as good as a confirmation as he was going to get. He gently grasped the slave's wrist, leading the other out of the room and down the hall. True to his word, the carriage was already waiting just in the courtyard for them. The blue mech let Tracks climb up inside first, before he got in himself. Once they were all seated, the driver whipped the horses into moving; the carriage slowly winding down the drive way and to the bustling city down the hill.

**xxXxXxx**

Everything seemed to be going well.

Soundwave felt his chestplates puff out slightly in pride, unreasonably glad to see the Autobot browsing through the marketplace. At the moment, they were looking at one merchant's wares, of various gems and baubles. Tracks was looking over them with a disinterested optic, but at least his attention was there and not simply roving the crowds, waiting for the moment when they would return to the councilor's villa. They had already been over at a couple other stalls, perusing the different fabrics and clothes on display. Soundwave had chosen at least twelve of them, sending them back to the carriage by his attending servant for later use at his home. Which reminded him... he would need to call for a seamstress as well.

It seemed that something had caught the winged mech's optics. The telepath stepped forward, brushing the other's processor out of habit more than to glean any information. As usual, there was nothing to be read, but the nagging feeling that something was... familiar. "Inquiry: have you found something that you like?," Soundwave asked, taking a look at the jewelry Tracks was almost touching. It was a simple bead necklace with moonstones weaved throughout intermittently. Certainly not extravagant, and no doubt had been ignored by many others already for its blandness.

"You may try it on, my lord, if you'd like," the merchant said, lifting the moonstone necklace up. Soundwave moved to grab it, to put it around Tracks' neck, when the Autobot flinched violently, glaring at both of them before turning and storming off again. The councilor's attendants startled at the unexpected action, glancing from their master and to his fleeing slave. Confusion was obvious in their optics, as was the question of whether or not they should give chase.

Soundwave held a servo out, gesturing for them to stand down. "Correction: shall not be buying anything," he said quickly to the stunned merchant, before slowly weaving through the bustling crowds after his wayward mech. He was perplexed himself, if not a little frustrated as well, by Tracks' silent escape. He did not know what had set the Autobot off, but it was obvious that the winged mech rather risk another desperate attempt for freedom than stay in the Decepticon's company any longer.

**xxXxXxx**

"Would you look at that," the skinny mech leered, peering out from a tiny alley. He gestured quickly to his comrades, pointing with a knobbly digit. "Take a gander friends," he cooed greasily. "Isn't that there a lovely prize?"

His partners, another mech -burlier in size- and a femme -as twig-like as himself- squinted their optics in study. "You mean that dandy there?," the second mech rumbled, scowling at the richly dressed mech rushing down the street. It was obvious from the way the stranger twisted his helm about that he had no clue as to where he was, or the danger he could fall into being so far away from the main roads. "Never seen an Autobot with wings before..."

"I know, right?," the first 'bot chuckled in dark delight. "He's obviously precious."

"Probably is a lord's slut," the femme sneered, picking at her rusted skin with clawed fingers. "I ain't know any rich knocker who be an Autobot in this city. And that dress be too fine for a regular 'bot."

"Wouldn't mind a slide between those thighs...," the second mech growled lustfully. The other one murmured his agreement.

The femme scoffed, cocking her bony servos on her hips. "I ain't care what your sick processor would like," she said. "I want that there dress."

"And what like would you do with it?," the first ruffian hissed, glancing back at her quickly. "You'd be like a crow plastering on peacock feathers, covering that crone-like body of yours in that dress."

The second one laughed while the femme growled angrily at the taunt. Not concerned, the skinny mech waved her off, turning his attention back to the wandering Autobot. Their victim had slowed down some now, his optics flickering from one darkened doorway to another alley anxiously; coming ever closer to their hiding spot. "Hush now," their "leader" ordered of the other two. "He be coming this way. When he gits closer, we'll make the snatch! And then you can git your dress, and we can have ourselves our own taste of richness."

His two companions grinned wickedly at the other's words, hunkering down with him to lie in wait.

**xxXxXxx**

Tracks didn't know where he was going. He just knew that he had to get away, run, flee, before Soundwave could catch him again. It was the Decepticon's own stupid decision to bring him outside -did he not think that he wouldn't try and run? Tracks didn't know, but he didn't care. He'd suffered the first couple cycles as it was, being dragged from stall to stall and forced to have different clothe held up to his frame. Clothe that no doubt would be used to make him more "pleasing" to his "master".

He would not let that happen.

Now he was running through twisting streets and tiny side alleys, getting further and further away from the main square. Even though he had distanced himself from the other mech and his over-bearing lackeys, it hardly felt like freedom. The looming buildings on either side climbed high to the sky, making the gap between him and that stretch of blue all the more distant. And there seemed no end to this endless labyrinth of sideway stone walls.

Slowing down a little, Tracks attempted to get some bearings on his location. He didn't want to keep running like a turbo rat in a cage; he'd only be captured again that way.

He did not notice the glowing sets of red optics in the alley to his left, until the servos were lashing out for him, wrapping around his chassis and mouth, tugging him into the dark.

"See!," a voice hissed out, tugging at his collar. "A slave braid! He is a slagging whore!"

"Who cares," said another of his assailants. Their servos were trying to worm under his dress, leaving greasy-feeling streaks in their wake. "Just means he'll be nice and slicked for me."

Terror overcame the slave as he realized what the strangers were talking about; writhing violently in their hold, trying to escape. But his hunger strike and his ill-prepared dash through the city had left him weak, his struggles meaning nothing to his jeering attackers. Laughing, they pulled and tugged at his clothes, trying to get them off of his frame without ruining the dress. In between, large, nasty servos groped beneath the fabric, touching his chestplates and wings with frenzied lust.

Tracks cried and screamed as this happened, whimpering helplessly as they finally managed to get his robe half-way down his chassis. In the darkness though, and with his mouth covered by a filthy servo, he knew no hope could be had.

"Hold his arms!," a thin voice snapped, coming from directly in front of him. "I can't git the fragging dress down any further."

"Don't ruin it!," the first voice screeched again. It definitely sounded female.

"If he don't stop struggling, the dress will have it!," growled a third. "I won't be denied my frag, glitch! 'Sides, you can sell the scraps for some credits." A round of cruel laughter from the other two, but the femme was unimpressed.

"Hurry up then!," she demanded, clawing forwards at Tracks. Her fingers dug into his paintjob, scratching at his chestplates and his face. "I'll take that there pretty lil' leash also! Should help keep my pedes warm after I snap it from his neck."

"Why do you get the collar! I spotted him first. You two morons wouldn't have taken any notice at all if I had said nothing! The collar is mine! You can have your dress, and the stupid tank here his fr-" The speaker was cut off by a sickening thunk, something falling to the ground at Tracks' pedes.

His other two assailants cried out in dismay, quickly releasing the slave and scrambling up. They did not get far before two more cracks could be heard through the darkness, heavy, wet sounds hitting the alley floor behind him. Lying there still, Tracks did not even bother to move, expecting that this newest arrival would just carry-on from where the others had left off. He shivered when someone did grab his arm, but gasped in shock when that same person tugged him off the ground. The Autobot huddled into himself, lifting servos to his optics as he was led back out into the dull light; staring confused and uncertain at his rescuer.

It was Soundwave...

Tracks struggled to draw up his fathomless anger but it was quickly fading, along with everything else, leaving only exhaustion and sickness to wrack his frame with tremors. He didn't know why the Decepticon had saved him, but he didn't care. He just wanted to curl up somewhere and purge his tanks.

"Status: ...you are safe now," the councilor said, keeping his distance from the other mech. Seeing that the Autobot was still shivering, he undid the clasp on his chlamys, draping it across Tracks' shoulder tires. Tracks unconsciously drew the clothe closer, gripping the stretched fabric of his robe and the chlamys together as a means to cover himself.

Slowly, Soundwave moved closer, setting a comforting servo on the slave's backstruts. "Come: carriage is up ahead," he informed softly, leading Tracks up to the mouth of the street. The attendants waiting there stepped back as the telepath made his exit, opening the door of the carriage himself, and helping Tracks within. When the multi-coloured mech had taken a seat, Soundwave shut the door, turning to his other servants.

"Order: clean up the mess," he told them tersely, before opening the door and getting in as well. They bowed quickly before the door was shut and master and slave were hidden from view.


	5. Chapter 5

"Can't you see it!"

"Arcee, what do you think?"

The femme shifted her breakfast tray, turning and looking over her shoulder plating at the other servants. "Think about what?," she asked, confused.

The other 'bots groaned a little, one plump femme throwing aside her cleaning rag in annoyance. "C'mon, girlie!," the old matron scoffed. "Surely, ya noticed! I mean, the Lord has never acted like this -for any 'bot! And I mean, to spend credits on a mech he wouldn't put to work. I think it's rather strange, dontcha?"

A round of nodding helms met the older femme's words.

"It's true, ya know," noted a younger mech. He looked at his companions, leaning heavily on his broom. "The lord's never bought a 'bot as beautiful as that mech before. I think it's very odd that he hasn't made a move yet."

"I-it's not that odd...," a feeble, youngling femme slave commented. "I-i mean, milord is very slow i-in his methods."

"Slow nothing!," said the older femme again. "The master- forgive my glossa- but he is oblivious as the sun is to the grass. He doesn't notice anything, especially not about his own feelings."

"Ummm...," Arcee interrupted, having gotten lost with the other servants' rambling tangents. "What did you want me for again?"

"Tell us!," the others cried. "Are the master and that slave courting or not!?"

The maidservant shuttered her optics wildly at the unexpected question, almost fumbling her tray and dishes in the process. "Well, uh...," she mumbled.

"C'mon, he's gotta be," the mech argued. "I mean, how can he keep a 'bot like that and not want to be closer to him? If not for a physical affair at the least," he whispered off to the side, nudging the timid little slave.

"Oh, hush you!," exclaimed the aged servant, smacking the mech upside his helm. "Don't be so lewd with the youngling; you'll terrify her."

"O-okay," Arcee interrupted, shifting her grip and holding one servo up. "Before we get carried away, I think you should all take into account that Tracks is, umm... well, less than h-hospitable towards his current situation. A-and even if master is so inclined to him, he d-does not seem willing to act upon it. Indeed, I believe he is just innocently concerned about Tracks' well-being."

The gossipers waved off the Autobot's words, snorting in disdain. "I hardly see how that's even possible," the old femme said. "Perhaps the young mech indeed does not care for our Lord, but that mech certainly likes his precious lil' ditty well enough. Innocent my aft... I can scarcely believe he's not trying to woo that there 'Tracks', as you call him."

"I-i-i'm sure his r-rescue will convince lord T-tracks of milord's c-conviction," the slave femme commented.

"Lord nothing! He ain't no 'lord' yet, just an over-priced who-"

"I'll ask that you silence yourself right there! He is my charge, and I will not have you talk of him like that," Arcee warned. The mech startled at the terse tone, almost losing balance with his broom. The matron once more smacked him, giving him a frightening scowl in the process.

"Now," the maidservant said slowly, "Whatever you might have heard around the villa, I'm going to have to say is false. Tracks has suffered terribly from his near assault, and my lord is just as grievous about the heinous crime. He's kept himself well away from Tracks, knowing how easily he might upset my charge. That is not love- it is the same kind and caring devotion my lord shows to us all. He only wishes for Tracks to be happy, in any way possible. So please, do not pester him or my lord with these, these... gross mentions of frivolous interfacing."

The other servants looked away guiltily, mumbling indiscernible apologies. "If that is all," Arcee sighed, "I must then be getting back to my duties." She bowed a little to her fellow workers, before turning and heading on down the hall.

"...I-i-i still t-think milord l-likes dear T-tracks...," the timid one whispered once the Autobot had gone out of hearing range.

"Oh, we all do, dearie. We all do."

**xxXxXxx**

The court seemed to be extra busy today. Soundwave walked through a tight crowd, almost annoyed by how close they pressed on either side of him; his processor bombarded with an assortment of different thoughts from the courtesans. Trying to close off as many of them as possible, the telepath hurried for the Emperor's throne.

Megatron was listening avidly to Shockwave, who was leaning over the side of the silver Decepticon's chair, whispering something into his audio. "Soundwave," he greeted, when the councilor was close enough. "We need to talk."

The Emperor rose, and the whole audience responded in accordance. Waving them off to their previous tasks, Megatron stepped down from the podium, making for the first corridor to his left. Soundwave followed obligingly. Servants and slaves were dispersed throughout the hallway thinly, attending their chores. Both Decepticons ignored them, walking silently for a few more kliks.

"I hear you made a bit of a scene in town yesterday," the Emperor began. He looked back at the telepath, optic ridge lifted curiously.

"Apologies, Lord Megatron," Soundwave replied. "Fact: Did not mean to-"

"Don't apologize," Megatron interrupted. "They were lowly ruffians and they got what they deserved. I hear they attacked your new slave. I wouldn't expect anybot to act any less in that situation." The tyrant looked back at Soundwave again. "How does the Autobot fare now?"

The councilor hesitated, not expecting the question. "Status: he is... unwell at the moment."

"Hmmm... unsurprising. I hope he is better soon," the silver Decepticon commented. "I would not want you to be deprived for longer than necessary. Especially since he is your first concubine."

Soundwave felt his fuel tanks roil uneasily. He supposed he shouldn't have been that surprised, considering Megatron had said some of the same things the first week he had bought Tracks... but it was still unsettling, having anybody -his Emperor included- refer to Tracks as a simple whore.

"Affirmative...," the telepath replied instead, hesitating. It was best if he didn't think about those other things anymore.

Megatron smirked, stopping in his stride and turning about face to his subordinate. "Don't worry about the incident in the alley; I've already had Shockwave clean up the loose strings. I'm not going to punish you," he explained, "There's no crime in protecting your property."

"Now, go," the Emperor dismissed, patting Soundwave's shoulder armour quickly. "Your villa awaits for your return."

Bowing his helm, the councilor turned on his heel and hurried back down the other end of the corridor.

**xxXxXxx**

Arcee curtseyed as Soundwave approached, straightening up and facing her master. "He still has not moved...," the femme whispered to the silent question hanging in the air. "And he's only nibbled at his lunch, my lord. It's almost like last time... but, I fear, things may only worsen."

Acknowledging her concerns, the councilor turned his attention to Tracks' bedroom door. "Action: shall visit him and assess the situation. Order: go and collect some flowers from the gardeners. Preferably something enlightening. Shall place them in Tracks' room."

"R-right away, my lord!," the Autobot bowed, turning and rushing off giddily. Soundwave waited until her chipper thoughts had gone out of range, before he reached forward; opening the door and entering into the winged mech's room.

Tracks was sitting on the thin couch by the window, his optics fixed to the sky above unseeingly. He did not turn his helm or do anything else that showed he noticed the Decepticon's presence. Slowly, so as not to frighten the other mech, Soundwave walked forward and stood in clear view at the end of the couch. "Inquiry: how are you this orn?," he asked.

The slave shifted his focus to the councilor, some sort of emotion flashing again in those dazzling optics. Despite the temptation, Soundwave withdrew from the rising swell of emotions echoing in Tracks' helm; wanting to give the Autobot more privacy and respect at this moment. Tracks did not notice, drawing his shawl tighter around himself.

"...What do you want?," he hissed.

Soundwave was almost glad to see that vehemency return.

"Fact: nothing. Only wi-"

"Liar!," Tracks snapped, getting up. "You chased after me, you killed those 'bots because they were touching me... Don't sit there and tell me that your visit then has anything to do about checking in on my well-being. You're just eager to know if your whore is still functioning!"

"Negative," Soundwave tried to explain. "Fact: was not intention of visit."

The Autobot sneered, turning and crossing the room. "Then what's all this for?," he asked mockingly, pointing to the vanity, the bed and armoire. "All these beautiful, luxurious things... If I'm not being pampered so I can be your slut, then why the slag do I need all this scrap for!"

Glaring at the councilor, Tracks whispered lowly, "If you didn't care about others touching me, then you should have let those thugs just rape me. Let that prove that you don't want me."

Soundwave was understandably aghast at the statement. "Fact: They were hurting you... No one has the right to do that. Status: they needed to be punished in accordance."

"And what about you then...?," the slave said, sitting down tersely on the berth. "Who will punish you?"

The telepath didn't know how to respond to that. "Fact: Hope that you feel better soon. When you feel up to it, we may go to the market again," he informed. He hesitated a moment, before deciding to head to the door. He glanced back at Tracks, who was still sitting stiffly. "Wish: have a good afternoon."

Then he left.

**xxXxXxx**

Tracks didn't know what to do.

He watched as the Decepticon left, before sitting down on his bed. His servos were still clutching at his shawl, almost circling his shoulder tires like claws. He could feel himself trembling still, and Tracks hated it.

He shuttered his optics and he remembered that dark alley...

Arcee dressed him, and he remembered that one femme's grasping digits around his neck cables...

No matter what it was, everything acted as a trigger, drawing him back to that frightening moment. The Autobot had honestly thought he was going to be raped and killed, and yet, Soundwave had shown up in the nick of time. Not only had the councilor saved him, but the blue mech had taken measures to make sure that Tracks was cared for.

From what Arcee had told him, Soundwave had ordered that all servants keep quiet while working this hallway, so as not to disturb him with their noise. The guards had been ordered to make their patrols well away from the slave's room, and that no one, under any circumstances, was to enter into Tracks' room- the exception being Soundwave and the maidservant herself.

No matter what the femme said, that sounded like stupid opportunist decisions right there.

And yet, the Decepticon had not taken this chance with Tracks' paranoia to catch the Autobot unguarded. It baffled the winged mech and put him on edge even more. Soundwave's "concern" wasn't helping any.

Tracks turned and glared out his window, knowing in his spark that he had to hurry up and get out of this place before it was too late.

**xxXxXxx**

He had not noticed that he had dozed off until Arcee came into his room.

"Good evening," the femme greeted as she hurried over to the vanity. She set down her dinner tray, grabbing the small vase that she already had sitting on it and placing it on the vanity, just to the left of the mirror.

"They're beautiful, aren't they?," Arcee chirped, looking at the mech excitedly.

"Lisianthus?," Tracks mumbled, staring dully at the flowers. "And Iris, Jasmine and Hydrangea?"

He turned a scowling glance to the maidservant. "What are these for?"

"Well, um," Arcee blushed, lifting up her tray again. "Lord Soundwave asked if I would get some flowers from the garden for you. I believe he thought that they might help cheer you up and make you feel better."

She pulled a small table towards the bed, setting down each of the dinner plates she carried. Tracks eyed the delicacies and canter but did not move forward to touch anything. Before he could comment though, Arcee was jabbering on once more. "I think it's real nice and all, what master has done so far. You know, he was real scared when you disappeared back in town. Everybody is talking about it too," she said, as she continued with her tasks, "He was ever so relieved that he found you in time before those thugs could cause you any harm. Getting mugged like that, oh, it must have been horrible! But, lord Soundwave was able to bring you back safe and sound."

"Now he just wishes you to feel better again. The flowers certainly brighten up the room a little, don't they?," the femme finished. She stepped back, curtseying. "Anyways, I hope you like tonight's dinner. The meat is especially great tonight."

"...you can go now," Tracks said, turning his helm to the side.

"Oh, but...," Arcee mumbled in surprise.

"I'll eat...," the mech replied lowly. "Just leave."

"O-okay..." The maidservant bowed, shuffling for the door. "I'll come back in half a cycle then."

Once she was gone, Tracks got to his pedes, ignoring his dinner for the time and heading for his vanity. He stood silently before the furniture, his gaze locked on the vase full of flowers. He lifted his servo, intent on knocking the bouquet to the floor, but hesitated; his servo simply hanging there above the vase.

His thoughts were... conflicted for once.

He could hurt that Decepticon for even daring to think he could just give flowers to him and expect the slave to suddenly be okay with his imprisonment.

Yet... the councilor had not told the others about him almost being raped either. In fact, the Decepticon seemed determined to keep such news secret between those who already knew. As if he cared not only for Tracks' well-being, but also his dignity.

It was...

"Slag!," Tracks hissed, whirling around and stomping back to his bed.


	6. Chapter 6

The following morning brought a heat that stirred the surrounding vegetation, filling the atmosphere with the heady scent of pollen from the flowers and tree blossoms. Lethargic from these effects, the staff at Soundwave's villa moved a little slower this orn, practically lazy in their duties. Arcee was especially dazed this afternoon. She stood among the sun and flowers, caught in the maelstrom of their perfumes, doing her best not to yawn or show any other sign of inattentiveness.

"Inquiry: how does he fare this orn?"

The question startled the maidservant, who cringed most unsightly at the words, spinning around to meet her lord, smiling contritely. "He, he is much better, my lord," she answered Soundwave, curtseying quickly in respect. "He decided this morning that he would take a stroll through the gardens after breakfast."

The councilor canted his helm to the side as he scanned the gardens. He could see Tracks up ahead, near the roses. "Acknowledged," the Decepticon replied. "Order: return in doors to prepare a refreshment for Tracks. Shall keep him company in the meantime."

"Yes, of course, my lord," Arcee bowed again, before hurrying inside.

Now that the femme was gone, Soundwave began a slow meander through the gardens, treading along Tracks' previous path. He kept at a distance for a time, remaining out of sight. Doing so allowed him the perfect chance to simply study the slave. With the warm weather, Arcee had dressed Tracks in a loose robe with a long sash tied around his thin waist and draped over one shoulder tire. Different beads and bangles had been slipped around his wrists and armguards; stringed jewelry had been wound about his wings, near the middle of the white plating. All of this splendor was hidden by a sheer veil once more attached to the Autobot's chevron, billowing about his upper chassis so as to protect his plating from any pesky insecticon's bite.

It was amazing how a slave could make such simple things the most luxurious of items.

Soundwave kept pace until he saw Tracks circle around one of the many fountains dotted throughout his garden. The multi-coloured mech went about its circumference slowly, his fingers held out to the red marble, before he lowered down, sitting on the stone's lip. The councilor watched, curiously, as the slave reached down into the bubbling water, churning them lightly with the tips of his fingers. The sight of that imprisoned angel sitting in postured serenity by the fountain was an image that stirred something strange within the Decepticon.

"...Are you just going to sit there and stare at me, or will you finally do something else?" The soft hiss drew Soundwave's attention; he lifted his gaze to find Tracks glaring back at him over a shoulder tire.

"You 'lords' are all the same," he continued venomously, "Peering lecherously at your prisoners, brewing in your lust... I wonder how long you can keep up this pretentious display before your propriety gives way to fancy."

The telepath decided not to comment on those vicious words, but obliged to the Autobot's silent dare, stepping forward a little. "Fact: you speak with great intellect," Soundwave noted, "Inquiry: where were you educated?"

Tracks scowled at the question, turning his helm back forwards. "What do you care?," he growled.

The blue mech circled around, so that he could see the slave's face. "Status: most interested. Action: would be willing to listen and learn, if you'd like to share."

Tracks glared at him.

"Leave me alone..."

Soundwave couldn't help the small frown he felt. "Inquiry: why are you so averse to being in my company?"

"Why?," the winged mech exclaimed indignantly. "WHY?! You are keeping me prisoner! I'm trapped here, in this horrid place, dressed up like a dolled slut! And you have the nerve to ask why I act like I do?!"

Tracks leapt to his pedes, stomping up to the councilor. "Don't you dare speak!," he hissed, shoving an angry finger into the Decepticon's face. "You can keep your ideals of hard-work and freedom earned, I won't be swayed by such nonsensical fancies. How could I even begin to think of buying my freedom when you won't put me to work!"

Soundwave was honestly stunned. He had half-expected the anger, but not for the specific words used by the slave.

But Tracks was still not finished. "I won't simply bend over for your perverse, cruel promises," he scowled, denta bared as he spat his words. "That is no freedom."

The councilor inclined his helm slightly. "Query: What would you care to do then?"

The Autobot's optics shuttered in shock. "W-what...?," he croaked, pulling away quickly. His wings were stiff behind him, shoulder tires hunched about his helm defensively.

"Status: you are correct in your statement. Repeat: what things would you like to do?," he asked.

The colour of Tracks' cheekplates darkened. Optics narrowed into thin slits, the multi-coloured mech continued his back-tracking. "Just stop it...," he said lowly, "Stop it! Leave me alone!"

Turning around quickly, Tracks hurried away from the fountain; almost running as he rushed to get away from the Decepticon and indoors. Soundwave only watched, oddly silent as he gazed after the slave's hasty retreat.

**xxXxXxx**

He remembered.

He hated remembering.

The way the moonlight caught her angles, made her smile all the more brighter; the vividness of her optics contrasting with the very stars. The sight, even in memory, made his spark wither and ache deep within him.

"I'm sorry," he croaked, feeling the pain he thought he had buried away resurface and tear open forgotten wounds. The memory turned, and now her smile was all for him alone. Delicate servos, that he had loved and cherished so much once before, reached out and cupped his cheekplates.

It was enough to get him weeping all over again.

**xxXxXxx**

Arcee puttered around the room, putting away Tracks' new clothes and jewelry. Every once in a while, she glanced to the berth, where her charge laid. Tracks had been lying on his stomach, helm turned to the side, ever since she entered. Despite her attempts, the mech refused to get up or otherwise acknowledge her presence. Admitting defeat, the femme had simply went to her tasks.

It confused her though.

She had honestly thought that things were finally getting better. Tracks had been a lot more talkative these last few days, and he didn't nearly struggle as much when it came to bathing or getting dressed. It seemed like the other slave was getting used to things around the villa at last. Yet, here he was, reverting back to his old silent, dreary ways.

Arcee cycled a heavy intake, moving some boxes to the vanity. "Would you look at that," she smiled, trying to catch the other Autobot's attention. She lifted the lid off of the boxes. "It seems Master Soundwave has bought you some more gifts. Look at these lovely bracelets and charms. Aren't they just beautiful?"

The maidservant turned to the berth, holding the box up hopefully. But, as expected, Tracks was not looking. He remained as he was, frame slightly curled into itself and face half-buried into the sheets. The sight dampened the femme's usually bright spirits.

"W-well, I'll just leave them here for you to look at later," she mumbled, returning her attention to the boxes. She stacked them neatly, putting them to the side of the vanity mirror. Later, she decided, when she came back with dinner, she would put them away with the others.

"If that's all..."

She padded to the door, waiting to see if Tracks would finally respond to her. He did not.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Arcee said, reaching into her apron pocket. She withdrew a book, setting it on the nightstand near the bed. "My lord thought that you might like to do some reading in your spare time. He says that if you had anything to ask of him, he'd be available to give you audience at any time. Until then, he hopes you enjoy the novel."

Only silence met the femme.

"I'll be back later," she bowed to the mech's back struts, reluctantly heading out of the room.

**xxXxXxx**

Soundwave wished it were quiet.

Though he sat in his office, with no 'bot assigned to tend to him, there was still a cacophony of noise all around him. His staff's thoughts, like buzzing insecticons, filled his helm, making it difficult to make sense of what it was he was thinking exactly. And right about now, he could have used some semblance of peace while he attempted to figure this puzzle out.

Tracks...

There was so much he still didn't know about the Autobot. Like, how did the other mech manage to block out his readings, or why was he so numb inside until something triggered within him? Where did Tracks grow up; why did he speak as he did? What things did he actually know, was he home-schooled, or had he attended an Academy with others of his age? And why was he so against everything that the Decepticon tried to do for him?

Maybe it shouldn't have bothered Soundwave -he knew a few, specific people at court especially, who would have scoffed at him for concerning himself with such unimportant things- but that was not his way. It never had been. With Tracks, especially, it was a difficult case.

The councilor was really trying his hardest. He only wanted the Autobot to be happy, to find some contentment with his life, even if it was not what he had thought it would turn out like. Slave or not, that was a general wish Soundwave carried for the other mech. Yet, Tracks could not see that, and continued to draw into himself until he was either dead to the entire world or until all that lingering hatred and animosity erupted outwards.

Though that seemed like the official problem bugging the telepath, that wasn't really the case.

He had taken notice of something strange growing within, an anomaly that was gaining seed within his very systems and thoughts. It was perplexing and its source unknown, but a few cycles of analysis was starting to give Soundwave some light to what this oddity was. Yet... it couldn't be.

No, it wouldn't be right, he knew.

Tracks was his slave, no matter how the other wished that weren't so, and he was well aware of how vocal and aggressive the Autobot should become if he made any mention of his discovery to the other. Indeed, it was a somewhat disturbing find to himself.

But there it was.

Soundwave, despite his careful detachment from any within his household, had somehow managed to... well, to put it bluntly, garner some affections to the winged mech. The fact was a nightmare in itself to behold, but the supporting evidence could not be ignored.

The way he found himself in awe of Tracks' beauty, even all the way back to when he had simply been chained up in Swindle's cellar...

Those heated words and venomous glares, from a processor that he could not pry into...

His terror and the way he shivered when those thugs attempted to rape him; stopped only because Soundwave couldn't help but to follow after the Autobot, an unimaginable force of raw fury rising up in him when he saw their nasty servos all over Tracks...

What he had first meant to be simple visits to the slave, to make him feel more comfortable within his new home, seemed to have become the councilor's downfall. Each moment alone with Tracks prodded at his spark. He wished to hold this mech close, to kiss him, caress him; to have sweetness and love come from those lip components in return of his own feelings. Soundwave wanted to unravel the mystery that was the Autobot, and even after all secrets had been spilled and held under the light, keep Tracks protected and safe whenever he felt scared or vulnerable. It was a mad thing what they called 'love', when it made fools like himself think they could be both the antagonist and the hero.

Sighing, the blue mech turned in his seat, staring at his office door.

He would have to shut out these thoughts, and bury these emotions. As councilor, he didn't have time to try and pursue affairs with his slaves. As a Decepticon and his warden, he knew Tracks would never have him anyhow.

**xxXxXxx**

The whispers were running about the villa again.

"Can't you see it?," one said to another.

"Yes," their partner replied. "The master has been most subdued these couple orns. Already, he's gone out for another trip into town."

"He doesn't even need to shop," spoke up a third, leaning towards the other two. "He's doing it to escape, I thinks. That there concubine of his what refuses to give in- a lord can only take so much before he cracks."

"You mean, he's-?!"

"Hush!," said the first. "The master isn't so foolish as to run off into town to waste coin on a decrepit pleasure house. Not when he's got his own exotic beauty here at home. No, if anything, the lord doesn't want anyone else. Just that there 'bot."

"He's indeed fancied by him," agreed the third servant. "But the master is a bit much silly waiting on that there slave to accept him."

"He is old fashioned, isn't he..."

"Mayhaps too much."

"Something needs to be done," proposed the initial speaker. They leaned in closer to their partners. "What we need to do is-"

The group fell silent, immediately pulling away from each other when they caught sight of Arcee turning the bend. The maidservant held a tray of lunch for Tracks, and seemed to be late delivering it to her charge. She hurried on past with not a glance or word to the suspicious looking trio.

Crooking their digit, the first servant quickly pulled the others back to them. They whispered their plans into the two other 'bots' audios, seeing them grin and nod in agreement. "It's going to have be done secretly," piped up one.

"Indeed, but that ain't no problem there. And I know just the 'bots to help out with the plan."

"That's good and all, but only tell those you think will need to know. Arcee and the master must not though," said the schemer. "Make sure everyone keeps their helms empty once he comes back, and I'll take care of the lil' goody-goody."

They nodded their helms again.

"Shouldn't be a problem really."

"Not at all."

"Now hurry!," commanded the first. "After lunch, the slave will go do something and be back inside in time for his nightly bath before dinner. The food must be ready by then, got it? Alright, spread the word."

With that said, the three dispersed, to go seek out fellow comrades and set their plans in motion before their lord returned home.


	7. Chapter 7

It was oddly silent when he returned home.

Soundwave paused in the entrance, looking at his waiting staff. They were all smiling, helms bowed as usual, but their thoughts were suspiciously subdued. Just as he thought to pry further, he was approached by one of his servants. "Good afternoon, Master," he said, reaching from behind the councilor and unclipping his cloak. "The Autobot in your private hall would like to see you in his quarters. As soon as you are able, my lord."

The Decepticon stared at his staff, caught off-guard by the news. "Status: it is late... Inquiry: What does he wish to talk to me about?," he asked. He scanned the servants' helms quickly again. Their processors were still quiet, but there was definitely reference made to Tracks. From what he could gather, the first servant had been true in his announcement of the winged slave waiting in his room.

Another 'bot spoke up this time. "He would not say, my lord," the femme replied, bowing. "But he expressed that he would like to see you, no matter the time."

Soundwave mulled it over as he let his attendants collect the last of his outer wear. The part of him that he was still attempting to strangle wanted to rush over and see Tracks immediately. Common sense and propriety argued that such a visit so late in the orn would be unwise. And there was still the issue of his staff acting peculiarly.

The councilor nodded his helm in acknowledgement before he started off for his private hallway. Oil lamps blazed through the dark corridors, filling the spaces with warm light and curtailing the shadows into tiny alcoves and crevices. Not a soul preoccupied the hallway tonight, and the air was just as dead. If this was an oddity to the telepath, he didn't notice it, too fixed on his conflicting thoughts as he was. He had yet to decide if he wanted to respond to Tracks' summons, or not.

But as he was nearing the Autobot's door, his pedes made that decision for him. He approached the wood silently, lifting a servo and, after a moment's hesitation, knocking on the door. "Designation: Tracks?," he called softly. "Status: you wished to see me?"

He waited about a klik, but when there was no reply, he reached for the handle. "Tracks?," he said again, entering into the room. Soundwave did a double-take for a moment. The room had been stripped of most of its linens; the bed just a bare mattress with its satin pillows still on top, and the windows missing its curtains as well. The armoire's doors had been flung open. Even from where he stood, the councilor could see that the dresser had been emptied out as well.

Slowly, Soundwave stepped further into the room, shutting the door behind him. "Tracks...?"

"Get out," came a growl from the other side of the room. The Decepticon turned to the direction of the voice, staring uncertainly at the bed. "I said get out!," Tracks shouted this time. His optics rose over the side of the bed, glaring daggers at Soundwave. "Can't you take a fragging hint!"

"Status: confused... Inquiry: Is there an issue?," Soundwave asked, slowly circling around the room.

"Damn you to the pit!," the Autobot screeched, sinking out of sight again. There came shuffling as Tracks attempted to get away from the councilor, while remaining unseen. "T-this is all your fault."

The blue mech stopped in mid-stride at the unexpected accusation, shuttering his optics behind his visor. "Inquiry: What are y-"

"Don't 'what' me! It was you and your scheming staff that did this to me! I hate you, I hate you all!"

The cruel words were beginning to pierce his spark. Soundwave, despite his better judgement, crossed the room in two long strides, reaching an arm around the bed and grabbing hold of Tracks' shoulder tire. A breathless gasp met his audios as his golden fingers wrapped around the limb, making the councilor freeze in response.

"O-oh...," Tracks quickly squirmed from his grasp, rising up and backing into the corner. He grabbed a pillow, trying to use it to cover his naked frame. "This," he hissed, connecting his optics with Soundwave's. "This is all your fault! I should have known that you would resort to such nasty, under-handed tricks!"

The Decepticon could not even begin to formulate a protest to that, let alone speak. His mouth had gone slacken behind his battle mask, and his visor glowed brightly as his system's began to purr with rising lust. Tracks was standing before him, poorly sheltered behind a pillow, that barely hid his beautiful, waxed plating from sight. His wings shone behind him, fluttering intermittently, while the slave frequently shifted his crossed legs. Blue optics blazed with heavenly light, rouge lip components glistening in contrast to energon-stained cheekplates. And the most erotic part of the entire package... Tracks' codpiece had also been drawn back, lubricants oozing slowly from a valve the councilor could almost see at this angle.

"Stop staring!," the Autobot shouted, pulling the cushion taut as he continued to cover himself. "J-just stop it!"

Soundwave felt his gaze lift, catching Tracks' optics. The cloud of lust that had been filling his processor began to dissipate and he shuttered his optics in appalled surprise. How could he have lost himself? Becoming enthralled by the delicious sight before, letting his basic programming override logic... Tracks would never be this bare for him willingly, and such evidence was true by the upset tears collected in the corners of the Autobot's optics. The telepath could only be disgusted with himself.

"I-i wish...," the slave panted, legs sliding against one another again. He stifled a moan, folding into himself and sinking to the floor. "I-i'm, aah... S-slag! H-how dare you do this to me?! S-spiking my food and ta-taking all my things away f-from me, so I have no choice but t-to be naked f-for when you arrive... I hate you for that! I hate you!"

"Fact: was not my command," Soundwave attempted to explain. He fumbled with his sash, undoing the knot and unwinding the material from his waist. He stepped towards Tracks about two pede-steps, before holding out the clothe for the Autobot to take. "Fact: would not want to harm you this way."

"Lies!," the multi-coloured mech hissed, ignoring the telepath's charity. Soundwave sighed softly, leaning forward a little, and quickly draping the clothe around Tracks' shoulder tires.

"Assumption: incorrect. Fact: shall find the ones that did this and punish them accordingly."

"Fine, whatever! Do whatever the slag you wish- just leave me alone!," Tracks spat. "I don't care if my chassis burns for your touch, the feeling isn't real! It's a poison forced into me, trying to trick me into submission. Well, I won't give in! I've told you over and over again: I am not your whore! Not now, not ever!"

Soundwave was silent as the Autobot raged at him, feeling a multitude of bitter emotions slam into his processor. The sheer force of them was enough to cripple another 'bot, but the cold, digging truth of the slave's statement was what had the Decepticon crumbling within. "I know," he wanted to say to Tracks, "I know you will never have me." But he couldn't even say that now -no doubt the winged mech would just call him a liar and hate him all the more for speaking.

Something though, quick and fleeting, caught the telepath's attention. He pulled away from his own despair, chasing down the unknown thing while Tracks' processor was still open to him and cornering it. Scanning the half-formed thought, Soundwave found himself even more stunned. "Inquiry: who was she...?"

Silence met his question.

"W-who...oh-oooh...W-who, ngh, are you t-talking about?," Tracks panted, still folding into himself. He was practically squatting on the floor now, the pillow wedged tightly between his half-bent frame. Whatever his staff had given him -probably a very strong, and dangerous aphrodisiac- was beginning to take its toll on the Autobot. Despite this, Tracks was fighting to keep his glare strong, swallowing back his moans and whimpers of need.

Soundwave shook his helm as he tore his gaze away from the slave. "Identification: the turquoise femme in your thoughts...," he mumbled in clarification. "Fact: Your emotions are darkest where she is concerned."

Fear, like nothing the councilor had ever seen before, wrote itself across Tracks' face. The Autobot immediately sat up straight, before pressing back into the walls, as if he wanted to simply melt into them. "Y-yo-you, y-you...," he stammered, fingers clawing at his battered pillow. "H-how do y-you know that... Y-you shouldn't know that!"

"Request: please! Do not move too much. Fact: you shall strain yourself!" Soundwave's plea fell on deaf audios as Tracks scrambled to put more distance between the Decepticon and himself; slamming into the councilor's frame in a sudden bolt for freedom and knocking them both to the floor.

"L-let me go!," Tracks cried hysterically, struggling to stand up. He spark was pulsating so fast it felt like it was going to burn out at any second; his intakes faltering as the slave began to hyperventilate. Soundwave grunted as he was kicked by the desperate mech, rolling onto his servos and knees as Tracks made a mad dash for the door.

"Wait!," the telepath shouted, leaping up and grabbing the other mech's wrist. He used Tracks' momentum against him, swinging the winged slave around so that he fell onto the berth. "Repeat: do not fight! Fact: the drug in your systems will force something to fail if you use too much energy."

"G-get off of me!," Tracks screamed, bucking wildly beneath Soundwave. Coolant poured down his cheekplates in streams as he continued to writhe and kick, his optics wide and white with terror, ignoring every word the blue mech had just said. "P-please... I don't want to! I-i don't want to!"

Soundwave didn't know what to do. He could feel Tracks' own terror bleeding into his systems the longer he was assaulted by the slave's torrential thoughts, making his better judgements flail uselessly. The image of the soft-coloured femme that had sparked this reaction was quickly fading from the Autobot's thoughts, and now the councilor was privy to the memory of Tracks' first capture. Through the dark, angled view of the processor's optic, he watched as those vagabonds descended on the recently chained slave; tearing back his plating and taking their fill. He didn't want that memory to be the first thing the winged mech remembered after so long.

The Decepticon released Tracks' wrists, staring sympathetically into the Autobot's as he touched his cheekplate softly with one servo. "Fact: Am not them," he whispered softly. "Apologies: for all that they have done. Plead: acknowledge that, please."

Tracks' thoughts were still a whirl of chaos. Doing something that he had never done before, Soundwave once more pushed into the slave's processor -this time, using his natural-born gift to calm the turmoil within. He pushed away the ill-ease and fear that the Autobot was feeling, helping Tracks gain control once more of himself and burying the thoughts and emotions back under their veil. The councilor couldn't say entirely if he was happy when Tracks stilled beneath him or not.

The absence of any will within the slave was something that left his fuel tanks roiling unpleasantly.

Cycling a deep intake, Tracks unshuttered his optics, looking up at the telepath blankly. "Off," he intoned in a dead voice, giving no other inclination to what he was feeling.

Soundave nodded his helm at the Autobot's wish, slowly backing away from the multi-coloured mech. He had forgotten the other's charged state though, and as he was pulling back, his leg brushed along Tracks' inner thigh, drawing a needy moan from the slave.

Tracks squirmed as his lust ran anew, trying to cover his frame once more. The councilor could only stare on in hunger. The aphrodisiac must have reached the peak of its efficiency. The Autobot's chassis was giving off waves of heat that Soundwave could literally feel against his own plating; the pillow that he held slipped, displaying vividly his fully pressurized spike and valve. Both were slicked with pre-fluids, and even coolant was pooling about the slave's optics as he avoided looking up at the Decepticon.

Soundwave took steady intakes, trembling in his quickly fading self-control. "Suggestion: perhaps..."

"N-no," Tracks protested weakly, trying to wiggle out from under the blue mech and roll away. "I-i-i don't need y-you to do an-anything."

The councilor knew it would have been wiser to get as far away from Tracks as possible. But with that warm frame so close to his own, and the aphrodisiac wreaking havoc on the slave's systems the longer he refrained from overload, Soundwave could not simply leave. "Request: come here." He pulled Tracks back to himself, forcing the weak mech into his lap. "Allow me to help."

Tracks couldn't fight him off.

He moaned, melting completely in the Decepticon's hold when a thick servo wrapped around his aching spike. Oh, the blessed relief that came immediately -the pleasure was so good it was almost painful. The Autobot cried out as Soundwave began to pump him, keeping his grip loose but firm, the warmth of his palm spreading his trickling transfluids around. His charge built to greater heights, until Tracks felt like he was going to explode.

But the damn mech would not go any faster!

Keening desperately, Tracks moved to quicken the pace, arching into Soundwave's servo again and again. The councilor let him do as he wish, a servo cradling the other's shoulder tire, so that the slave would not unseat himself with his writhing. Just when he thought he couldn't take anymore, the blue mech tightened his grip around the Autobot's spike, making Tracks overload with a strangled cry of ecstasy.

He collapsed against Soundwave, all jelly limbs and condensation-slicked joints.

The telepath shifted him gently, laying him stomach plating down onto the bed.

Common sense returned to Tracks. He stiffened as he felt the Decepticon move behind him, his whole body going cold despite having been steaming hot just moments before. He should have expected this; he had just given his slaver a golden opportunity, allowing him to touch him in a state of arousal. How could he expect the other mech to just walk away now, when his plating was still pulled back and his valve in clear view of the councilor's prying gaze?

Knowing it was inevitable, Tracks prepared himself for Soundwave's assault.

A heavy servo petted his helm once, twice, gently. "Goodnight," the telepath wished softly. The bed dipped as Soundwave moved, getting off of the mattress. For a moment, Tracks could not believe it, but he was forced to re-think his thoughts when he heard the door click close at the Decepticon's leave.

Stunned, the Autobot pushed himself off the mattress weakly, turning around. He was all alone in his room again.

Slowly, Tracks laid back down, staring confusedly at the bedroom door.

**xxXxXxx**

Soundwave leaned against the wood of the door after he had closed it, lost deep in thought. For a full klik, he did not move, but he knew after a length of time that he could not simply stand there idly. With heavy steps, he began to walk back up the hallway, intent on retiring to his chambers for the rest of the night.

So distracted was he, that he almost didn't notice the servant making their way towards him. "Good evening, my lord," the femme greeted, bowing, "Did you have an enjoyable time with sir Tracks?"

The councilor rounded on the servant immediately, feeling her thoughts boast wildly of her ill deeds in this whole affair. Incomparable rage tore through him as he loomed over him, the maid noticing her master's fury and withering beneath his bloody gaze.

"Status: you will leave this household. Immediately," he growled. "Fact: if you ever return, you shall be taken straight to the stockades. Inquiry: is that understood?"

"Y-yes my lord," the femme croaked, coolant filling her optics. He stood hanging over her, waiting for her to move.

"Well?," he demanded angrily.

She whimpered in fright before tearing off down the corridor and out of sight. Soundwave watched her go, still festering in his rage. It took all off his self-control not to simply call the servant back and strike her.

When the thought of murder had been wrestled from his list of immediate action, the councilor turned back around and closed the last of the distance to his own chambers.


	8. Chapter 8

"You've been hurt..."

Arcee started at the unexpected comment, lifting a servo to her face. Her cheekplates stung when her fingers brushed them, the bruises still tender and sore. "I-it... it's nothing," she replied, refusing to look at Tracks. The mech rose to his pedes as the maidservant clipped the last of his shawl in place, turning about to face her. The femme did not attempt to move when he slipped fingers under her chin, making her show him her face.

"How?," Tracks asked simply.

The maidservant blushed at the other's concern, finally looking up at him. "The o-others... Master Soundwave, h-he was most furious to d-discover their schemes and the insult that they b-brought to you. W-while he was t-tricked into coming to your r-room, I was b-beaten and locked into a closet away from th-their plans. M-master Soundwave found me and l-let me out."

It was true what she said. Arcee had never thought that the people she had practically grown up with would take part in such crazy plans, let alone bind and gag her in a closest so as to keep the pink slave from interfering. She had been so worried and afraid locked up in the darkness; her inner turmoil assuaged only when the councilor had come to her rescue. Everything after that, Arcee had learned the next morning, when she noticed that many of her associates were being punished in some form or another.

At the other's explanation, a sort of mute expression of contemplation took over Tracks' features. He withdrew from the femme, walking to his nightstand and collecting the book that was sitting there. The mech picked it up, holding it neatly. "I'll be in the gardens," he mumbled over a shoulder tire to the femme.

Not waiting for Arcee's confirmation, Tracks turned and headed out the door. The maidservant could only stare on in shock and surprise, not expecting her charge to want to leave his room so soon. Catching herself, the pink slave quickly gave chase; determined this time to make sure that she was aware of the other 'bot's situation at all times.

**xxXxXxx**

He couldn't focus.

Soundwave sat hunched over his desk, various scrolls and reports opened before him; a bottle of ink and his feather pen waiting to be used. He knew had work to do, but he also knew that it didn't have to be completed for some time still. So it begged the question of 'why?' Why then, when these things did not require his immediate attention, should he waste time on them, locking himself in a stuffy room where his focus kept slipping anyways?

Because of one very reason: Tracks.

If he left this room, the councilor would be hard-pressed not to seek the slave out. Already, just the simple thought of the Autobot stirred his lust, bringing a rushing heat to his loins. Soundwave groaned softly, fighting with every fibre of his being not to lose himself in his thoughts. Ever since the night before, when he'd come home to find Tracks drugged and in need, the Decepticon found it harder and harder to beat back his feelings. They were growing stronger all on their own to begin with, but this incident only acted as extra incentive, making it near impossible for the blue mech to shove them aside any longer.

And the things he had glimpsed...

Tracks' thoughts, for a couple kliks, had been wide open to him; flooding his processor with so many things. He almost fully understood the Autobot there, and was sorely disappointed that he had to help the winged mech shut everything back up inside of him. Of course, if he hadn't though, he would have to endure the suffering and the rage he felt, hearing Tracks' memory of his rape. If the councilor ever came across those mechs himself, he knew he'd kill them.

Soundwave leaned back in his chair as he began to drift in his own thoughts, wrenching from them suddenly when he realized that he was once more remembering the warm feel of plating flush against his front; moans echoing in his audio as he wrapped his fingers around a hot, drenched spike. No, these were things he shouldn't recall! These were wrong! Quickly, the councilor tucked them away, burying them deep within himself.

The action though left his spark puttering in agony.

What a twisted matter of circumstances this was, the Decepticon sighed, lifting a servo to his weary visor. In any other setting, these thoughts might not be so unwelcome; his desires not so taboo. But the reality of the situation was that Tracks was his slave -thrice bruised and humiliated- and he was lord and master over the poor mech. Any emotions formed within this relationship were automatically sick and cruel.

Soundwave sighed again. He really needed to get his processor away from the subject of Tracks. Yet, that only brought up the other question: who was the femme he had read from the slave's thoughts?

**xxXxXxx**

The sun beat down from high above, hot and unrelenting, covering the world in its heavenly light yet also strangling it in a cloak of heat. Slowly, Tracks flipped through the book resting in his lap, his attention spliced between the words before him and the cool splash of the fountain behind him. No matter how hard he tried though, he found his focus waning. He'd spent the last several orns out in the gardens, sitting at the same fountain, reading the book the Decepticon had left him.

He was nearly finished...

A sound rustled softly from behind the winged slave. Lifting his helm, the Autobot glanced backwards, half-expecting to see Soundwave standing behind the rose bushes again, watching him. Instead, a filthy slave -covered in a layer of grime and dirt- looked up in surprise from his work; fumbling with his hoe as he caught the other's stare, before he quickly shuffled out of sight again. Shuttering his optics, Tracks turned back to his book, but his thoughts were far away from the histories or troubles the literature told. Alone, the multicoloured slave lost himself within questions yet unanswered.

Why had his "master" not come to visit him again since that night?

As obviously desired as he was, it made little sense that the councilor would not act upon the opportunity that he had been presented with when the Autobot had been charged and bared under him. Yet the Decepticon had done nothing more than relieve the slave of his overwhelming charge before leaving; himself, unsatisfied in the same sense.

Was he being avoided now?

Though Tracks had made it a point to stay away from his room, with the exceptions of meals, getting dressed and recharging, he had not yet once seen the councilor. Perhaps the blue mech was truly busy; maybe he was tending to other duties that he had, or out buying other slaves. Still, it was noticeable enough to the slave that when he had not wanted to see the Decepticon, he was plagued often with "well-intended" visits from his captor, and now...

Now it was if Soundwave was a ghost or an illusion of his distraught processor. It was a tempting thought, but it bred more ill than actual good thinking about it. Escaping that tangent, Tracks' processor latched onto the next worry resounding in his helm.

How had the Decepticon known about her?

Even now, the winged mech could feel his spark break from its frozen shell, withering fearfully as he recalled the exact events of that night. Though Tracks would love nothing more than to forget everything about that incident, the memories still remained and they were causing him so much torment, especially concerning the secrets that Soundwave had so blatantly spoke of during. They were facts -about his life, before his captivity, before everything had been stolen from him- that no one, this Decepticon especially, should know about. So how did he know enough to mention her?

He couldn't possibly care. He was nothing but a slave owner... surely, he must have been using whatever history he had dug up about the Autobot only to taunt Tracks further. His concern, his generosity, his absence...

All just shows, tricks, to get the slave to drop his guard. It had to be... otherwise, why else would Soundwave go through so much effort?

More importantly...

Why did such a thought bother Tracks?

Closing his book with a quick snap, the multi-coloured mech rose to his pedes, hurrying back inside and away from the heat and his unwanted musings.

**xxXxXxx**

The day started out beautifully. Though she was concerned about the relationship now between her master and her charge, she was still happy that Tracks at least seemed to be settling into his new life well. She'd enjoyed spending the days out in the gardens with him, even if she was mostly ignored in favour of the mech's book. Grabbing her charge's breakfast -with a stiff, polite nod to the other kitchen staff- Arcee skipped down to Tracks' room, humming a cheerful tune as she went. Knocking politely on the door as she came to her destination, the femme balanced her tray on one hip, entering the room.

"Oh... good morning," she said, bowing her helm shyly. Tracks turned away from the vanity, clipping the last of his pins in place, shuttering his optics at the femme slowly. A small inclination of his helm was his only response to her greeting.

Stunned by even the smallest recognition, Arcee stood in the doorway for nearly a klik, before she remembered exactly what she was supposed to be doing. Fumbling in embarrassment, she quickly shuffled into the room, shutting the door behind her as the pink slave headed for where her charge sat. "I b-brought you your breakfast," Arcee informed, setting down the tray on the vanity. "Fresh fruits, sliced in quarters, with devil eggs and fresh bread with honey and molasses for spread."

The winged mech glanced at the dishes momentarily, before staring intently at his reflection; choosing one of the devil eggs and bringing it towards his mouth. Uncertain of what to say, Arcee shifted awkwardly at the other Autobot's side, occupying herself with the beautiful view beyond the window. Master Soundwave really had chosen the room with the best view of the gardens for her charge.

"...I finished."

The femme jolted at the half-muttered statement, her helm snapping to the other Autobot in surprise. "P-pardon?"

Tracks inclined his helm slightly in her direction, his hooded optics flat and almost cold. The one servo slipped away from the breakfast tray, grabbing the novel he had been reading studiously the past several orns and lifting it in demonstration. "I am done with this one. Where may I find more?," he asked.

Arcee shuttered her optics, still in a state of semi-shock, before she quickly smiled and fumbled with her reply. "O-oh, yes! There is, indeed," she explained excitedly, "Master Soundwave has a very large and extensive library on the property! Bounded leather, scrolls, wood panels -the master has many books, in various materials. He collects them on his journeys and brings them back home."

"Show me," the winged slave demanded, rising to his pedes suddenly. He faced the femme, ignoring the rest of his breakfast. "Show me this library."

"R-right away!," Arcee chirped, almost skipping to the door in her excitement. She remembered in whose presence she was shortly after, and quickly subdued that part of her, turning her helm to her charge demurely. "I can lead you there. Please, just follow me."

Tracks glowered at her, but said nothing, following in the other slave's pedesteps silently. He did his best to keep his gaze forward, ignoring any and all other staff that they passed, same as Arcee did. Counting the corridors and turns they took, the mech was quick to notice that they were in a familiar hallway. He slowed to a pause, unnoticed by his guide, staring at the small alcove in the wall. With the sunlight streaming through the windows, the door to the Decepticon's office was more visible. Tracks spared a quick glance to Arcee -still walking forwards, babbling softly about something or another- before he tip-toed for the hidden door.

He stood quietly before the wood, wings hitched high and intakes muted. He could hear the faint rumble of voices from within.

Curious, the Autobot leaned forward, pressing his audio to the door.

**xxXxXxx**

"...of utmost importance."

Soundwave waited until the messenger had spoken his piece, before extending a servo and silently requesting the scroll the other mech carried. At once, the servant handed it over, stepping back and patiently awaiting either response or inquiry. The councilor took this moment to break the scroll's seal, giving the orders within a quick read-thru. Though the other could not see it, the blue mech frowned behind his battle mask; his visor dimming in concern.

"Inquiry: The Emperor wishes for my immediate departure?"

The messenger nodded his helm, bowing quickly to show his respect before speaking. "His Lord has dictated all requirements within, but has made profound note that this task is to be completed within the month," the servant answered. "He expects that you leave by the orn, at the very latest, but understands if you might need a few more hours to set affairs in order for your estate."

The councilor did his best not to sigh, even as he dropped his gaze back to the scroll in his servos. Megatron was making high demands once again, but he was Emperor, and as loyal servant to him, Soundwave had no choice but to comply to his ruler's wish. Still, he felt uneasy for the first time in a long while, and he realized it had little to do with his estate. In fact, it had never bothered him previously when he was sent on far-away missions for his Lord, to leave home and servants with no master for weeks on end.

Of course, that was before he had brought Tracks home.

Idly, Soundwave wondered how the winged mech might take this news.

"If his gracious councilor is willing to the terms outlined, the Emperor would like it if you'd passed on a response, so that he may know of your obedience to his commands," the messenger was saying. "As declared, the matter is of most impor-"

The Decepticon lifted a servo, silencing the servant, who quickly snapped his jaw shut and looked at the other mech, awaiting further instruction. Turning his helm, Soundwave stared at his office door, allowing a few astroseconds to pass. "...Status: welcome to come in, Tracks," he said, as the silence continued to drag on.

The messenger cringed as the door was slowly pushed open, the Autobot appearing on the other side. Blue optics narrowed distrustfully, Tracks stepped into the room, sparing a quick glance at the stunned servant, before turning his glower back to Soundwave. Without taking his gaze off of the slave, the councilor said to the messenger, "Status: agree to his Lord's mission. Shall leave within the orn. Action: you are dismissed."

At the order, the servant bowed, stepping past the multi-coloured mech and exiting the office hurriedly. Once he was gone, Soundwave kindly gestured to the spare couch in his office, asking, "Inquiry: would you care to sit?"

As usual, Tracks did not take to the invitation. "...you knew I was there?," he began coldly, wings giving tense little flicks every few astroseconds. "How? How do you know things that you shouldn't? Answer me, slaggit!"

The language was somewhat unexpected. Soundwave faltered, before rising to his pedes and approaching the Autobot. His spark gave a sickening lurch as he saw Tracks shuffle away from him quickly, shoulders hunched up to his audios and lip components pulled into a nervous snarl. Looking away from the slave for a moment, the councilor closed the office door, before crossing his arms behind his back and turning his gaze once more back to the other mech. "Fact: you have many questions..."

"Of course, I do," Tracks sneered, taking a few, cautious steps backwards again. "But surely, you must already know that. Just as you know about _her_." The last word was punctuated with a growl, and the sound made Soundwave tense slightly. Without pressing, he could feel that vague swell of emotions rise; fear and anger at the forefront of the chaotic mess.

"How did you find out...?," the slave demanded softly. "Did you know all along? Were you merely playing games with me, until you felt I was mad enough so you could spring that little bit of truth on me -simply to garner some sort of response? Is that it? Is that how you get your kicks? By first subduing, manipulating and then raping your slaves?"

"Negative," the blue Decepticon tried to answer, his servos coming up in an attempt to placate the other mech. The action though did quite the opposite, and Tracks blew into a hysterical rage. "Status: was only-"

"LIAR! Liar, liar, liar, liar!," Tracks screamed, backing up and curling against the wall defensively. "You knew! You knew all along, and, a-and... and you sat there, playing with me! Hoping that I would give in this entire time! But when it became obvious that I would never subject myself to your whims, you decided to taunt me further by bringing her up! I bet you staged that rape too, didn't you! All part of your master plan to bend me the frag over!"

Slowly, the multi-coloured mech slid to the floor, servos grasping his helm and wings trembling. "Damn you! D-damn you to the scrapheap!," he whimpered, vocalizer cutting and intakes heaving gently. "Slaggit... I-i... I had finally forgotten... f-forgotten that s-she..."

It tore him apart to watch this beautiful mech fall to the floor, tears streaming down his face and trembling servos covering his helm, similar to a small sparkling trying to shield himself from scary monsters. Without stepping forward, Soundwave bent to one knee, his gaze soft as he stared at the traumatized Autobot before him. "Fact: never... never knew her name. Only that she was important to you," the councilor said, trying to soothe Tracks. "Was told of her from the merchant."

It was a lie, he knew, and though it made his fuel tanks twist painfully, Soundwave realized that at this moment, Tracks didn't want to hear anything other than lies. The slave could handle nothing less. At the words, the Autobot lifted his helm slightly, a glare forming even through the thick of his tears. The reaction almost made Soundwave glad to see it, though animosity was the very last thing he wished to incur from the other. "Status: must leave, but will ensure that you have the best provided in my absence. Estimation: should return within a couple months. Fact: will-"

"You're leaving then?" The cold question cut the Decepticon off before he could finish. "You'll be gone for a long time? Is it somewhere far you are going?"

Soundwave vented softly, recognizing the inquiries for what they really were: confirmations about whether or not he would be around the estate. "Assumption: correct," he answered resignedly, resting one arm on his bent knee. "Status: will be leaving shortly."

The blue optics flared irritably behind glass frames. "Then why don't you hurry up and _go_ ," came the snarl.

The councilor did not respond to that; instead, rising to his pedes and holding out a servo for Tracks to take. The slave ignored it, standing up stiffly by himself, his glare having yet to leave his face. Eventually, he just let his servo drop back down to his side. From beyond the walls of his office, Soundwave could hear his faithful slave's frantic thoughts, and felt just a tad bit of sympathy for her. "Arcee: looking for you," the blue mech informed the now-composed slave. "Suggestion: return to her; put her worries to rest. Option: if willing, can discuss any questions you might still have on my return."

Tracks snorted, obviously not taken with the Decepticon's kind offer.

Frowning sadly, Soundwave turned to the door, opening it and standing aside; allowing the Autobot the choice to go through first or not. The multi-coloured mech hesitated for a moment, before he drew his shawl closer to himself and marched for the door, taking care to eye the councilor warily as he passed. Silently, Soundwave followed, closing his office door behind him and locking it. When he turned around next, it was to find Tracks quickly twisting his helm away, clearly not wanting to have been caught staring. Though he knew it would not be right, nor appreciated, the larger mech could not resist.

He stepped closer to the slave, raising his servo. Pausing only momentarily when Tracks flinched, Soundwave pressed forward, his golden fingers curling gently on the side of the Autobot's face, a thumb stroking once at the lovely plating. It had been a long time, he noted bitterly, since he had last touched Tracks this way. "Fact: after returning, will discuss various chores you can do as a means to work for your freedom," he quietly said. The blue optics he was staring into so deeply flared with both shock and disbelief.

Smiling shortly, the councilor released the slave, turning and quickly making his way down the hall. He heard Arcee give a vocal exclamation of relief as she found Tracks, followed by the forlorn sensation as turbulent emotions were once more subdued and tucked out of sight of his mind-reading abilities.

For the first time ever, Soundwave cursed his Emperor.


	9. Chapter 9

Soundwave looked over the ruins of the town, frowning behind his mouthguard. "Inquiry: What happened?," he asked, turning to his guide.

The soldier bowed quickly, before straightening up, helmet tucked under his arm respectively. "Attack, sir," he answered. "Witnesses report that an unknown group swept in during the night and razed the town. Only a few of our people were able to escape unscathed."

Our people... the term was only ever used in reference to Decepticons; proud kin of the Emperor. Soundwave peered harder at the ruins, his processor working away. "Query: Any Autobots found?"

The soldier seemed a little caught off-guard by the question. "Um, none, sir," he replied, bowing quickly at his stumble, "No Autobots were retrieved- dead or alive. The men surmise that all of them were taken as prisoners. This was a slaver's village. What Autobots were here already had been bought or were awaiting transfer to Iacon or Kaon for sale."

Of course the soldiers would think that, Soundwave wanted to sigh. They were entirely unimaginative 'bots -none of them could possibly fathom that this wasn't a simple kill and claim raid, but rather a rescue. The councilor would have to make mention of this in his reports. The Emperor would not be pleased to know that the rebels' were on the rise -and being successful, on top of it all.

"Theory: noted. Order: scope the ruins for further evidence. Books, clothes, markings..." Soundwave trailed off in his commands, spotting a messenger running toward him from the left. The servant humbly bowed as he approached, panting out an apology for his interruption, before drawing a scroll from his satchel and presenting it to the councilor. The Decepticon waved his servo, dismissing the soldier to his duties as he received the scroll; striding for camp as he looked it over.

The message had been sealed with the crest of his house; no doubt from the matron. Worried that the news may be about Tracks, Soundwave quickly broke it open, unravelling the message and holding it steady in the light to read it. To his disappointment, it was about the other mech...

Tracks had attempted to escape -again- and was now being confined to his room, with all-hour guard watch. Thankfully, the matron had been wise to wave off the usual punishment, already knowing her master's stance on the matter. There was a small report from Arcee though, commenting that her charge was experiencing vivid and frequent night terrors, and had consequently stopped eating again. Soundwave felt his spark wither in concern. The nightmares could only be about Tracks' memories of his capture and whatever tragic events that occurred before it; no doubt shaken loose from whatever barricades the Autobot had in place from the councilor's constant prying...

The guilt was enough to eat him alive. He wanted to help -to make Tracks happy- but what could he do?

Soundwave's visor gleamed as an idea struck him.

"Messenger: here," he called to the waiting mech that stood not too far away from him. The servant dashed forward, pulling out a spare scroll and pen, already anticipating the councilor's request. The Decepticon took the items silently, scrawling a quick message onto the paper, before he rolled it up and tied it shut.

"Suggestion: run fast," he told the younger 'bot as he handed him the reply. The messenger bowed, slipping the scroll into his satchel, before turning and sprinting across the field back home.

**xxXxXxx**

They say at your worst moments, in the dark of the night, you dream. Tracks, for one, could attest to that.

He found himself snared in a web of memories, first ugly and horrifying... before they shifted, changed, and he was left with only her.

"I-i... I'm sorry," he whispered softly to the air at night, almost feeling her very presence -but knowing how ridiculous that all was. She didn't exist, not anymore, and he knew this. Knew it, just as strongly as he could remember the chilling warmth of her energon on his servos...

"I'm s-sorry," he would choke, curling into himself, servos covering his face in shame. "S-sorry, I wa-wasn't s-strong enough... w-wasn't fast enough..."

She had been getting better; bursting into life once more. They were destined for happiness. Then fire and smoke tore through their lives and- Tracks cringed, burying his helm beneath the pillows and sobbing in his grief. Now, he was captured and doomed to a life of imprisonment, belittled and treated as a whore. His life was nothing more than a hundred, thousand shards; all too sharp for him to even touch.

"I-i... I-i'm sorry...," he whispered again, "I-i'm s-so, s-so so-sorry..."

But even her smiles could not resolve him of his sins. And so, the slave spiraled down in his grief, desperate for forgiveness and freedom, until exhaustion took all such thoughts and dreams away from him.

**xxXxXxx**

Arcee walked past several guards in the span of twenty feet, before glancing uncertainly at the final one posted at her charge's door. "G-good morning," she said to him. The mech glanced down at her, the shadow of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

"He has not moved much," he informed her dutifully. "Only to get up and sit at the vanity..."

Smiling nervously back, she thanked the guard and pushed open the door, finding Tracks just as the other servant had said. "Good morning, Tracks," she called, before crossing the room. "I've brought you breakfast."

The other slave did not even look at her as the femme drew up to his side, gently setting the tray down onto the vanity. "I thought you'd like something nice... so, I brought you some fresh-sliced fruit and quail eggs. They're better for your stomach, I hear."

Still no response.

Being bolder than she'd usually be, Arcee stepped behind the mech, gently leaning over and cupping his chin; looking at their reflections in the vanity's mirror. "The cut's healing nicely," she tried to smile encouragingly. "You took such a nasty fall, I was afraid that it might scar... but given a couple more days, you should be all healed up! No ugly mark to mar that handsome face!"

Arcee onlined her optics to find Tracks' reflection staring up at her; dull optics penetrating deep and intensely. Feeling somewhat unnerved, the smaller slave immediately stepped back, folding her servos before herself. "M-my apologies...," she mumbled, "I d-didn't -o-oh!" Arms lifting hurriedly in remembrance, Arcee withdrew a thin scroll that had been tucked away into her sash, holding it out for Tracks to take excitedly.

"The Master has sent a message for you!," the femme chirped. "He's heard that you've been unwell since his leaving, so he's decided to give you the key to his library. He writes that you may keep it as your own, and that, if it is to your liking, you may work in keeping it tidy as part of your exchange for freedom. Isn't the Master so kind?"

That drew a reaction out of Tracks.

He whirled around in his seat, snatching the scroll from the other slave's servos, ripping it open and reading through it quickly. Glad to see her charge react -no matter how- Arcee turned and busied herself with the wardrobe, selecting an outfit and matching accessories for the day. She missed the way Tracks began to sneer, before the venom left his optics and he looked at the scroll in mute contemplation.

"...where is this library?," he asked; his first words in a few orns.

Arcee beamed as she turned to him, folding the clothes neatly in a carry-along basket. "The matron has given me the key to pass along to you. After your morning bath, I will escort you to where the library is," she informed eagerly. "It'll be nice to see the library being used again. Master used to frequent it often, but recently, he just doesn't have the time anymore."

She half-turned to the door, in a silent prompt. Scowling slightly, the multi-coloured mech rose to his pedes, strutting ahead of the femme and out the door pompously; ignoring the guards that stiffened at his sudden exit, looking first at the mech and the slave femme that followed, beaming like a ball of sunshine itself.

**xxXxXxx**

The library was in a relative state of neglect. Tracks looked slowly about the room, taking his time to step forward and touch certain articles. A thin film of dust came away as he stroked his fingers across a stack of books lying abandoned on a table.

This would take some time cleaning, the Autobot noted irritably.

It looked as if no one had been in here for several weeks at least. Thumbing the key he held in his other servo, Tracks moved further into the room, pulling back the drapes and watching as sunlight poured into the room. From here, he noticed, staring out the window blankly, he could see the fountain he liked to frequent most in the vast garden.

The mech's helm cocked curiously, half-wondering why the councilor had never used this room to spy on him. It would have been a better way to do so, without the fear of interruption or being caught... wouldn't it? Tracks turned away from the window quickly, burying his thoughts and continuing his evaluation of the room.

Cobwebs and the like had grown in the corners of the rooms and under tables; sweeping them away, the slave could see all the gold filaments and gorgeous carvings that had been added into the wood. This... this was truly a beautiful library. Even just glancing at some of the tomes filling the massive shelves, Tracks could recognize a wide variety of literature of different languages, ages, cultures and subjects. It was a well of unimaginable knowledge and richness at his fingertips... Why would some slave owner give possession of such a lovely collection to his lowly property?

Struck with the suddenness of his own thought and questions, Tracks turned and flung the key into the farthest corner of the room, screaming shortly in rage.

**xxXxXxx**

He'd seen nothing but the same dirt paths for a few orns now. Sighing, Soundwave settled back into his carriage, thumbing through the scrolls covering his lap. His Emperor's mission, though he knew important, had taken him farther than he had first anticipated. Any longer, and he feared that Tracks might do something drastic.

The councilor glanced at the third report he had gotten on Tracks, half-smiling beneath his mouthguard. At the very least, it seemed that the Autobot was doing better. He had accepted his gift and was even noted as spending his entire orns in the old library now. Soundwave was glad. He knew it was wrong, but maybe, maybe this would be incentive enough to at least have Tracks stop constantly glaring at him?

Perhaps if he...

Soundwave grabbed his pen, making a note to the matron who would receive his reply, that Tracks was to be given an extra package to help him in his new duties.

**xxXxXxx**

The question as to why he had been given the library as his own still plagued him several orns later.

Arcee walked into the library, smiling brightly with a tray of lunch in her servos. "Good afternoon," she chirped, "I've brought you some lunch. Would you like to take a break now?"

The mech paused in what he was doing, glancing at her coolly before stepping down from the ladder, laying his dust rag over the side of a chair. Arcee watched as he approached, noting that he wore a different outfit than the one she had picked out that morning. "I see you have a tunic... did one of the other servants supply it? I suppose it would be much more practical to work in," Arcee smiled good-naturedly. "Not to mention, I've never seen you wear one before. You look quite dashing in common green and sapphire."

The femme giggled as she drew out a chair for Tracks, pouring him a cup of wine to go along with his meal. "Master will be so pleased that you're-"

The rest of her words were lost as suddenly she was pushed up against a bookshelf; optics flared as she found herself lip-locked with the other slave. Struggling, the femme got her arms under Tracks' guard, putting all of her strength into pushing him away even a little bit.

"P-please my lord!," she cried, twisting her helm sharply. "You mustn't-"

"Lord?!," Tracks hissed, pulling away from Arcee just as quickly as he had pinned her. He glared at the other Autobot, his denta bared as she looked at him meekly; still trembling from the sudden assault. "How am I a 'lord'?!," he shouted, fists balling at his sides, "I am a purchased frag-toy! How do I carry any status?!"

Arcee glanced off to the side, holding her servos to her chestplates. "T-that... that's not so," she said to the irate mech. "P-please... you must listen to me, Lord Tracks! I... I know you're still upset and a-afraid -I can understand! But you mustn't be angry with Master still. He's kind and nice and... and even I can see now that he cares about you. More than he does any of us other slaves. That's why he's always trying so hard: he wants you to be happy! ...C-couldn't... couldn't you be happy with all this, Lord Tracks?"

The mech looked at her, horrified, before he snarled, racing from the room. The femme didn't even bother to follow.


	10. Chapter 10

It was dark.

Moonlight barely pierced the thick clouds overhead and no lamps were lit in the garden tonight. Only the dim glow of his own optics disrupted the darkness, shining across the mirror's surface; reflected back at him. In the glass, behind him, stood a femme.

"...it meant nothing...," he mumbled flatly, "She was only a slave..."

The femme bowed her helm at the callous dismissal. "Why are you giving me that attitude?!," the mech hissed, servos curling on top of the vanity. "It's not like my situation is any different! Fine, I made a mistake. Does that make you happier?! For a moment, I saw her as you and I c-couldn't-"

He shuttered his optics quickly, trembling servos covering his face. Anger and fear waged through him violently, barely concealing the self-loathing he felt beneath it all.

"I-i... I don't think I c-can do this a-anymore...," the slave whispered weakly, "I-i'm not... I'm s-sorry... I know I p-promised, b-but..."

His servos lowered back to the vanity slowly; lifting his helm, he stared at the femme in the mirror, now standing behind him. Her optics half-shuttered in sympathy and her lip components were quirked in a broken smile.

"I-i... I miss you..." The mech choked the longer he looked back at her, remembering every single time a simple gesture, or gift, or even how the sun shined that orn would bring the sweetest of smiles to that tender face. "I..."

Through the haze of the coolant collected in his optics, he saw the femme step closer, able to outline the worn, thin and paleness of her form. The bare shadow of a wisp. A spectre. He refrained from staring at her frame for long, knowing that if he did, she would melt away entirely. Instead, he stared at her optics -the only vibrant light of her ghostly presence. Sympathy and sorrow reflected in the misty, glassy orbs back at him.

"...I-i... I d-don't w-want...," he mumbled, coolant filling his optics quickly. "T-this place... t-there's n-no one... to h-he-help me..."

The femme reached around to hold him and desperate for the contact, the slave shuttered his optics, remembering with painful clarity the softness of her touch, the warmth of her servos. For an agonizing moment, it actually felt like she was there. Smiling bitterly, he onlined his optics again, his gaze going from serene to terrified.

Jolting, the mech bolted to his pedes, his back slamming against the mirror as he turned to escape his tormentor. But nothing was there; no other soul accompanied him in the room. Through his panic, it took kliks before he realized he was alone. Wheezing weakly, he collapsed to the floor, hugging himself tightly as he rocked in the darkness; unable to shake the image of large, gold fingers tenderly wrapped around his chassis.

**xxXxXxx**

The court was an eerie place when devoid of all courtesans and slaves. Ignoring the shadows and deep, flickering light from the few lamps lit, Soundwave turned his attention to the main hall from which his Lord would emerge. Already, faint, echoing pedesteps approached; getting louder and louder until they boomed almost like thunder before a vicious storm. Megatron was angry. That was obvious in his stride, even before the Emperor came stalking out of the pitch black tunnel (similar to demons from a nightmare), cape snapping behind him as he viciously turned toward his podium. The grey mech did not even sit at the throne, instead, standing beside it in barely restrained ire; glowering down upon his servant.

"Do you _know_ what time it is?," he growled.

Soundwave bent to one knee immediately, keeping his helm respectively lowered. "Status: thought his Lord would like to hear the findings of the recent mission," the councilor replied. "Fact: It is as the Emperor has pondered."

"Is it now?" At his words, Shockwave came sliding out from behind the throne, taking his place on its right-hand side. It was no surprise to see the assassin there, let alone to see him so alert and aware. Some rumors pondered if the mech was even natural as themselves, for he was never known to sleep and he never ate or drank in the company of others.

With an aggravated sigh, Megatron waved his cape out of his way, turning and finally seating himself in his throne. He pinched momentarily at his olfactory sensor -no doubt, because he knew Soundwave was correct in his thinking- but would never admit to the fact, let alone confirm, that this was a report better shared in private, when all others were fast in recharge, trapped in the dead hour.

"Just...," the Emperor began, vocalizer tinted slightly with exhaustion, "Speak clearly, Soundwave. It is late, and though I _admire_ your diligence, I was much more comfortable in my berth before you decided to make your presumptuous demands."

Soundwave nodded and taking Megatron's words as a good sign, rose again to his pedes. He retrieved a scroll from his sleeve, and held it out to his left, paying no mind to Shockwave who strode forward to take it from him. "Repeat: Deductions as his Lord analyzed. Villages, small and far, are being attacked and burned to the ground. Citizens are slaughtered, though it seems to be as a secondary measure. Fact: All bodies accounted for are Decepticon. Status: No Autobot, whether slave or servant, found."

"Report: explains in finer detail villages affected, number of dead, ratio of supplies and food stocks remaining and documentation of slaves possessed or waiting for ownership," the councilor went on further, "Status: all bear similar signs of attack and count of missing stock. Analysis: Were not random, but orchestrated with finesse, demonstrating a direct and driven operation. Possible theory: Planning made by past military soldiers."

"And there were no slave casualties?," Shockwave asked. His one optic was focused in on the other's report that he had unrolled between his claws. "Hmm... It says here that one or two Autobots were found, deceased, but out of several trader villages, that is a very small, small, _small_ percentile. Let me guess: they died during the scuffle?"

Soundwave nodded. "Deductions: indicate such. Slaves: bear only wounds gravely fatal, studied to be made sloppily or rashly. Seem to be made in haste, rather than intent or with recondition," he answered.

Megatron stared silently at the councilor as all this was being said; his bloody gaze unreadable, his scowl gone for the moment. Somewhat intrigued by the expression, the blue mech turned his attention back to the Emperor, remembering to lower his visor an inch so he would not be seen looking directly into the warlord's optics. After all, it was a punishable crime, if Megatron so wished it to be. Scratching at his chin with a long, black finger, the grey mech slowly vented, before finally speaking whatever thoughts filled his helm.

"Tell me Soundwave: Where do you see their next target being?," he asked.

Not an overall startling question, for sure. Anticipating it, the smaller mech crossed his arms behind his backstruts. "Status: methods of attack following a typical circling pattern, slowly fanning out from one starting point and circling from both sides an entire area. Expectations: Attacks will not cease and instead will continue to increase and encompass a larger area, than another, as more and more Autobots are freed and taken. Targets: will remain smaller villages for the time being, but villas will follow next, then towns and finally cities. Projected destination: Iacon itself," he answered grimly. "Pattern of attacks so far indicate that Iacon is the overall intended target. Smaller towns and villages are merely practice and recruitment. Theory: Rebels intend to remove the Emperor from his throne..."

There was silence for a long, tense moment, until Shockwave rolled the scroll up quickly. "They're planning an uprising?," he said rhetorically, snideful disapproval rich in his tone, "With slaves? The Autobots are more foolish than I had thought. Megatron, my Lord, you shouldn't bother yourself with femmes and slaves... They lack any power or real strategy to-"

"Oh...," the Emperor cut in. Megatron leaned back easily in his seat, the usual, cruel smirk fixed on his lip components. "I am not worried, Shockwave. This would not be the first uprising during my reign." Rising to his pedes, the grey Decepticon leisurely stepped down from the podium, fixing his cape as he gestured for his personal bodyguard to follow. Shockwave did so, slipping the scroll into his sash, before silently slinking into step behind the other mech.

"We'll let them run around for a bit, stuff their tanks and play 'Liberator'... Then we'll cut off their sources, let them weaken with hunger and fall prey to the country guard or take their risks in the wilderness," Megatron discussed lightly with Shockwave. "It'll be... Soundwave?"

The councilor stood at attention. Megatron glanced him over quickly, venting soundlessly.

"You look absolutely haggard...," he continued flatly, "Next time, make sure you look presentable before calling on me. It will do no good to have one of my renowned officials looking like some sewer rate the guards dragged in."

Nodding stiffly, Soundwave bowed his helm and waited until Megatron and Shockwave had left; debating on informing surrounding city guards of possible attack and slave rebelling. Restraining from fidgeting, the councilor immediately turned and left the audience hall when all was clear, hurrying down the palace halls and past the night guard.

His carriage waited outside, equally as road-weary, mud and road dust covering the sides and obscuring the rich purple and vermillion colouring. Even the wheels were pitted and scratched; in need of a good fix or possibly a replacement. Deciding it was something he would leave to the stable servants for worrying, Soundwave made his way down the palace marble steps quickly, climbing into the carriage, giving the footmech barely any time to open it for him.

"Order: Home," he commanded to the driver, waving a servo tiredly.

He could almost hear as his servants sighed in relief and was sympathetic to their state. It had been a long week of hard travel, with barely any rest or breaks, and an even longer month altogether. At this point as well, even Soundwave was glad to be going home. He'd walked through enough demolished villages and among scorched frames to last him for the rest of the year.

He wished to see what had become of Tracks in his absence as well. The last report he'd been given had seemed more hopeful, but things always balanced on a precarious edge with the Autobot. Soundwave only wished that Tracks remained in well spirits. The carriage began to slow down and the blue mech glanced out the window in surprise, seeing the horses pull up to his villa.

One of the several guards on duty stepped forward to open his door as the carriage drew up to the gates; walking back to the main doors with the councilor. Each mech saluted respectively at their master's presence and the Decepticon did his best to acknowledge them in return. He could already feel exhaustion creeping across each of his circuits though and did not feel interested in dealing with the usual pleasantries.

Dismissing the small gaggle of sleepy slaves that waited on the other side for him, Soundwave started quickly down the hall to his room, eager to reach his bed. He slowed down though when he saw the guard standing at Tracks' door.

The guard noticed the councilor and opened his mouth to speak, but Soundwave waved him off before he could start his report. There would be time for things like that in the morning, after he had rested and regathered his thoughts. Stepping forward lightly, Soundwave grasped the knob and gently pushed the door open; quietly peeking inside. He was somewhat relieved to see Tracks' slumbering shape spread out on the bed -no sheets or glass or any other sort of possession had been damaged. Everything was as it should be.

Smiling softly beneath his mouthguard, the councilor closed the door again, nodding at the guard before finally heading down the hall to his much-longed for bed and sleep.

**xxXxXxx**

The chair creaked a little as he settled into it, the fabric giving and sinking comfortably around his hips. Soundwave took a moment to enjoy the familiar feel of his seat before shifting and looking towards his desk. Ignoring the fact that he would have to eventually replace his chair, he had a sizeable amount of paper work to go through. Most were simple reports from around the villa, but a few he knew were in regards to business around Iacon. The councilor's only focus though was on the large scroll sitting at the top of the pile; placed there this morning by the matron, as part of her usual report.

It would include all staff details and house procedures since his absence... as well as her own and the guards' reports about Tracks. That, the Decepticon was most desperate to get to now that he was in the comfort of his own home again. Picking up the scroll, Soundwave was just about to break its seal and start in the long amount of reading he had to do when the door behind him was opened.

Ah, yes, he remembered, breakfast.

"Order: Just leave it on the side table, thank you."

"As you wish, Master."

Visor flaring slightly in surprise, Soundwave turned in his seat, shocked to see Arcee setting his breakfast tray onto the table. The femme did not pay him any attention as she arranged the dishes neatly on the tray, before wiping her servos on her apron and turning and bowing a little to the Decepticon. "Is there anything else you required this morning, Master?," she politely asked.

For nearly a klik, the councilor was too stunned to even comprehend a response, but he quickly broke out of his daze as the slave bowed once more and turned to leave. "Request: wait..." Arcee paused, facing the blue mech; her expression innocent and curious. Frowning slightly behind his mouthguard, Soundwave rose from his seat.

"Fact: You are supposed to be tending to Tracks," Soundwave began, "Inquiry: Why are you bringing me breakfast instead?"

At the question, the femme stiffened slightly, before she bowed her helm ashamedly. "...f-forgive me, Master, but I fear I cannot see to Master Tracks anymore," she replied meekly. "He has become even more withdrawn a-and dissolves into fits t-that are s-sometimes quite a-aggressive. I tried to d-do everything to make him happier, my lord, but after he p-pushed himself o-on me..." The slave paused, fingers lifting to her lip components in the moment of silence.

"...I-i am sorry, M-master," Arcee continued in a hush, "B-but I f-fear I may only be i-instigating T-tracks further... A-and I do not w-wish to c-cause him a-any more trouble t-than I a-already have..."

Again, Soundwave was stunned into silence, but this time, worry settled into his tanks. "Status: ...see the dilemma," he said, equally as soft as Arcee. He rested a servo on her shoulder, causing the Autobot to look up at him. "Fact: will return you to former duties. Shall see to Tracks myself."

"...s-sir?," Arcee spoke up as the Decepticon stepped past her to leave. Soundwave paused, turning his helm towards the femme. At her master's attention, she rubbed her arm shyly, optics lowering demurely. "H-he... L-lord Tracks will not be f-found in his room. He's taken t-to locking himself in the library every day."

"...status: acknowledged," the councilor replied, nodding his helm towards the slave. "Arcee: relieved for the rest of the day."

She did not complain or protest the order. Curtseying quickly, Arcee hurried from the room at Soundwave's gesture; allowing the mech to exit behind her, shutting and locking the door to his office before he headed down the corridor towards the library.

**xxXxXxx**

He couldn't work. Tracks sat quietly in one of the chairs (one of the few he'd cleaned) staring at the walls around him; lined with bookshelves and gracious designs in gold, light cascading in from windows set here and there, highlighting everything with a warm glow. A rag was held loosely in his servo, its tip dark with dust before he had abandoned his task of pulling each of the books down from the shelves, wiping them and the tomes free of grime. It would have been a sight to behold, if there had been anyone to view it, that is.

The slave, lost in task, suddenly slowing down... pausing... before slumping altogether in a chair. He had not moved since (and that had been kliks ago) and the silence that engulfed the room was just as stifling as the dust glittering through the sunshine.

When Soundwave entered the room, this was the same state that he found Tracks in.

"...Report: have heard there were some troubles between you and Arcee," the councilor began after a long moment passed, and still, his entrance had not been noticed. He paused, hoping for a response, but none came and worried, Soundwave slowly reached out to feel Tracks' thoughts.

He did not know if the multi-coloured mech felt this, or if he merely was responding to the Decepticon's physical presence, but finally Tracks stirred. If only to merely turn his helm slightly at Soundwave; optics dim and unfocused.

"...are you real this time?"

Soundwave felt his worry increase at the question, especially as the light revealed the dark rings forming under the slave's optics and the sudden dullness of his usually vibrant plating. And the things seeping from Tracks' processor, whispering of delusions and paranoia... As if deciding that the blue mech had answered sufficiently, the Autobot cautiously rose to his pedes, anger beginning to burn in his frazzled optics.

"So you finally came back...," he hissed, tossing his rag somewhere off to the side as he slowly approached the Decepticon. "I hope you weren't hoping for a warm welcome or anything. After the stints you've pulled-"

Soundwave took a weary step back as Tracks drew closer, trying to appear as nonthreatening as possible. "Status: Do not know what you are referring to. Fact: Have not-"

"Don't interrupt me!," the slave shouted. He was close enough now and he punched the councilor sloppily across his jaw. Facing the hysterical mech, ignoring the slight sting along his chin, Soundwave tried to take another step back and only backed himself into the door. He could of turned the knob, left, he knew, but he was trapped by the mad optics fixed up at him; hatred, fear and... something else... lashing out in unseen waves.

Arcee had been right -Tracks seemed to be delving further into darkness, all progress made before gone. This knowledge frightened him, and the telepath was hesitant to think what events might this lead to next.

"Do you think it's funny?! To play these mind games; to push yourself on me and then to vanish!," Tracks continued, his fingers hooking into claws the longer he shook with the whirlwind of erupting emotions. "Poisoning my thoughts... fragging with my feelings... haunting me... I know you want me! I know you'd do anything to have me -even frag with me until I believed it was what I wanted too. I know your type, don't you try to tell me otherwise!"

"So just do it then! If you want me so badly, RAPE ME!," the Autobot shrieked, grabbing the front of his tunic, ripping the fabric; baring himself naked before the horrified councilor, "Do it now or know that the next time you see me, it will be my cold corpse! Then you can frag it as much as you want, you sick freak!"

Soundwave didn't know what to do. He stood there, stunned, visor flared as he looked down on the deranged mech. He was still trying to process everything that was being screamed at him, and hearing such words of self-harm... The Decepticon felt his spark seize in his chestplates as some sort of rationality seemed to return to Tracks, forcing the slave to stumble back a few steps, trembling.

Servos tried to grope at the remains of his tunic, to cover himself up, as the strained silence that had suddenly fallen grew longer between them; coolant slowly pooling in his optics. "W...," Tracks mumbled weakly, "...w-why won't you d-do anything...?"

The Decepticon quickly undid his cloak, removing his own top and holding it out uncertainly for the other to take. Tracks snatched at it immediately, slipping it over his helm as he took a couple more steps back, hugging himself as he turned away from the blue mech. His wings were low... lower on his backstruts than they had been when Soundwave had first brought the Autobot home...

...there really wasn't anything he could do for Tracks anymore, was there...?

Venting softly, Soundwave gathered his cloak again, slowly turning to the door. "...status: Will grant you freedom. Vow: No tricks or surprises," he announced quietly, "Trade: Clean the library and... Fact: And will compensate you with ten years' wages. Plus: All-paid ticket to any destination you seek, along with ownership documentation. Status: Will have everything prepared by the end of the week."

Maybe this would finally grant the Autobot some peace.

Not even looking back to see if he had been heard, the councilor left, feeling hopelessness weigh heavily on his shoulders and spark alike.


	11. Chapter 11

He'd stood there for the longest time, arms wrapped around himself, wandering and waiting for the Decepticon to come back.

Eventually, Tracks realized that the sun was beginning its descent as evening approached... and no one had yet to come for him. He had been left alone, and what should have been a blessed fact was almost too hard to swallow. Was it a trick? A lie? It had to be, the slave rationalized, forcing his fingers to release himself. His optics stared down at the tunic covering his frame -so loose and overwhelming, dyed in the luxurious colours of the rich- and had to fight down the urge to rip this one off as well.

Being clothed in Soundwave's own things was worse than the collar bolted around his neck cables. This was a sort of ownership that dictated he was more than just a slave; this shouted, loud and clear, property of pleasure. Concubine. Whore. Tracks wanted to tear the tunic off, burn it and spit on the ashy remains in frantic disgust. Yet he couldn't. Not unless he wished to travel back to his quarters, practically naked, for every 'bot and beast to see. That would be an even greater humiliation to his already damaged pride.

"...foul... sick... Decepticon..." The words slipped out of the multi-coloured mech's mouth, slow and disjointed, with barely any air or power behind them. It was almost as if he could barely curse the mech that had brought him to this point, but that strange feeling couldn't entirely squash the need to make his disgust and anger vocal.

Thus, he muttered, as the Autobot left the library finally; his pedes taking him back to his room with hardly any of his awareness.

Drawing closer to his door, Tracks silenced himself; his optics narrowing suspiciously at the guard that stood outside the open doorway. He didn't say anything to the mech as he approached (he never did) and he was barely given a glance in return. Which had probably been all for the best anyhow, because Tracks could not be sure he would want anyone to see the odd expression he made upon entering his room and finding the matron of the estate herself rifling through his closet.

"Remove them all," she ordered to a fellow femme as she pulled things aside for easier access. The younger servant hurried to comply with her superior's orders, grabbing an armful of the clothes hung in the armoire and throwing them into a trunk that hadn't been in the room before. The matron herself also grabbed some of the clothes, throwing them inside, before scoping out the rest of the room; sweeping jewelry and any other trinkets into a smaller, padded box.

Tracks closed the door behind him none too gently -the only sign that he was bothered by "his" things being taken, whether he actually wanted them or not. The younger servant jumped in alarm, her flared optics staring at the slave like a flustered petrorabbit. Her gaze looked guilty as if she knew she didn't belong in here. Which she didn't of course. Turning slowly, the matron glanced momentarily at the poor femme frozen in place, before staring coolly at the Autobot.

"Lord Soundwave has ordered us to remove these things from your room," she informed him, "A new wardrobe, more suitable to your tastes, shall be brought in shortly."

The multi-coloured mech said nothing at that; shuttering his optics slowly for a klik, turning on his heel and sitting on the edge of his berth in stubborn silence. The older femme merely snorted (softly, mind you) and snapped for the other servant to get back to work. "The bedding shall also be replaced during your evening bath, seeing as Lord Soundwave has told us its too... atrocious... for your liking."

You could hear the distaste in the matron's tone but Tracks did not notice it. His thoughts were already on other things, trying to make sense of everything that had just taken place in the last several cycles. Subconsciously, he stroked at the hems of Soundwave's tunic that he still wore, staring flatly into his rapidly emptying armoire.

Solitude, a job, those gaudy clothes being taken away with the promise of proper ones to replace them...

Had the Decepticon finally spoken the truth?

Uncertainty nibbled at the back of his helm, growing stronger and stronger the longer the slave sat there, watching as the others moved about, cleaning out the room of everything that had been given to him. Slowly, an idea presented itself, and when Tracks was certain both backs had been turned, a servo slipped into the open trunk filled with clothes; dragging an article out and quickly burying it under a pillow before anyone could catch him. Perhaps Fate was watching over him after all, because this he managed to get away with no one the wiser.

That left a sour taste in his mouth, no matter how he spun it.

The mech was saved too much thought about it when the matron turned around, shooing the younger servant away and locking all of the trunks and boxes for transfer. "Guards will come in to collect these," she said pointedly to Tracks. "And another servant will be along after to present you with your new garments."

Unsurprisingly, she got no acknowledgement to this news. Rolling her optical sensors impatiently, the old femme prodded her companion out of the room, shutting the door behind her loudly as she went. Tracks waited about a klik before pulling the stolen clothe out from under the pillow, holding it out before himself as he plotted away. This, he came to a conclusion, would come in handy for his test. Getting up quickly, the slave shoved it into the now empty drawer of the vanity, just an astrosecond before three guards entered his room.

**xxXxXxx**

To say it had been a few bad weeks overall was putting it lightly.

Tiredly, Soundwave walked down the hall towards his room, shoulders heavy with a million problems. He knew Megatron would make a few comments the next time he reported to the Emperor; after all, he'd been quite withdrawn during court. More than he was on a regular basis. If anyone was to see that there were things on his processor, it was to be his Lord and Shockwave. Coming up to his door, the Decepticon glanced momentarily down the hall to Tracks' own room, before shaking his helm and continuing on into his own chambers.

A lamp already sat lit and waiting by his berth, bathing the room in a circle of warm light and forcing the darkness into the nooks and crannies. Though sleep called to him, the weight of the scrolls under his arm reminded Soundwave that there was work to be done. Rest would have to come later. The meeting today had brought into light that the Autobot rebels were not as weak-minded as Shockwave had presumed. Two more slave villages had been raided, Decepticons and a few misfortunate Autobot slaves killed; all others disappearing under the veil of night with their saviors.

If such unrest continued, Lord Megatron would be forced to retaliate directly.

Was now really a good time to let Tracks back out into the world on his own? The blue mech wanted to say no... but he had promised. And considering the slave's rapidly deteriorating state of processor, perhaps the best option really was to give him back his freedom despite all his misgivings at the idea. Of course, the leading factor in those feelings was his poor spark.

He really was a piteous fool, falling for a mech that he had only wished to rescue.

Shaking his helm slightly, Soundwave headed for the thin table that sat at the room's window -a temporary desk that he used for reading, when he had the free time in the past. There were even a few tomes on its top, slightly dusted, from when he had read them ages ago. Pushing the books towards the edge, the councilor laid out the newest scrolls he had received from his contacts, lighting the desk lamp for better reading. He had just sat down and prepared himself for a longer night when there was a quiet hiss behind him.

Turning around, the Decepticon was surprised to see a piece of parchment lying on the floor, a few inches away from the door. It hadn't been there before and that was enough of a curiousity to make him get up. Once he had retrieved the parchment and lifted it closer for his inspection, Soundwave realized it was a note, with a simple message written across its face.

_'I wish to see you at this moment -Tracks'_

Spark giving a helpless little jolt, the councilor wondered if he should take the words seriously. He had been deceived once before and the results had been less than pleasant. Soundwave realized he was standing there for at least a few kliks, for the lamp's oil had started burning down. Re-reading the note, the Decepticon decided to take this chance; figuring that if this was a set-up, at least he could spare Tracks any humiliation that some rash servants of his may have put the poor mech into this time.

Grabbing his cloak just in case, Soundwave left the room and headed down the hall towards Tracks.

The door opened easily when he knocked, which was odd in itself, but odder still it was dark within. Worried, Soundwave only leaned past the threshold a little. "Inquiry: Tracks? Is everything alright?," he called.

"Come in," came Tracks' voice. It was calm, controlled. Flat.

That was... The councilor had never heard that tone before. Curious, he took a few more steps into the darkness, looking around for the slave. He still could not see but his telepath abilities did reassure him that Tracks was indeed in the room. "Claim: you wished to see me...?" A hesitant question, he knew, but this was a situation Soundwave wasn't entirely certain how to handle.

There was a gentle thud as the door closed behind his backstruts; light flaring to life a moment after. Turning around quickly in alarm (what was going on here?) Soundwave found himself in a bigger shock. Tracks was... He was...

Soundwave hurried to avert his gaze though a part of him wished to remain looking at Tracks. Tracks' frame. Clothed only by a sheer nightgown of complementary colour. That thought quickly brought on another forced vent. Keeping his helm resolutely turned to the side, the councilor watched as light from the lamp that was in Tracks' servos danced along the adjacent wall.

"Why yes, I did want to see you," the slave answered his earlier question. The Decepticon could clearly hear the gentle hiss of the robe as Tracks walked toward him, his presence warm against the other mech's side. "I know," the Autobot continued, vocalizer tantalizingly close to the councilor's audio, "That you wanted to see me as well. Are you pleased? I picked this out just for you..."

"P-protest: That i-isn't-" Soundwave tried to speak, but he found his own vocalizer unable of emitting any sensible sound. Without looking at Tracks, he tried to make sense of what was happening, but even a brief sweep of the multi-coloured mech's revealed no answers. Swallowing slowly, the telepath held himself stiffer as Tracks stepped closer; their frames mere millimeters apart and producing heat.

"Isn't that the case?," Tracks asked. Slender fingers stroked gently across his knuckles in teasing fashion. "Why you've been so... kind... to me recently? Giving me actual tasks, replacing my clothes, offering me... freedom..."

The fingers danced ticklishly up the councilor's servo, contrasting the flat tone that quickly bled from neutral to hissing. Alarmed, Soundwave could do nothing as those same fingers snapped around his wrist as far as they were capable of doing; yanking his heavy arm up and slapping his servos on either side of Tracks' hips. This time the Decepticon did look at the other mech, visor flared as he caught the anger painting itself across the slave's face. Tracks glared up at Soundwave, forcing the other's fingers to curl tighter around his waist, but when the blue mech did not respond...

"ANSWER ME!," the Autobot screamed, suddenly shoving the councilor away. Tracks slapped servos to his chestplates in outrage, shaking the fabric of the nightgown. "All week you've played 'Saint'! Don't tell me that this isn't what you've been sucking up for, playing your last hand before you give me my freedom tomorrow evening!"

Again, the other thought ill of him...

Visor dimming sadly, Soundwave took another step away from the slave, his servos hanging loosely by his side. "Fact: Do not want this," he replied hesitantly. Tracks could blow up at him at anytime. "Truth: Am sorry for your loss and suffering you have endured. Only wish to see you happy. Tracks: means more to me than your body."

The words had left him. The same ones he had deigned would be left better unsaid and forgotten altogether. Venting tiredly (and spark-brokenly, though Soundwave was dutiful to squash that selfish bit), the councilor turned his helm away from the stunned Autobot; stepping around Tracks and leaving the room.

**xxXxXxx**

Sitting at a table, basking in the sunlight coming in through a nearby window, Tracks sat; cleaning rag left abandoned on the table top alongside a stack of dust-covered tomes. The multi-coloured mech did not feel the warmth of the rays on him nor was he aware that the longer he sat there, the more and more he started to blend into the library's surroundings. In all sense of the word, he was lost to this realm. At least, for this moment of time.

All of his plans... All of his thoughts...

A gentle knock rapped at the door, disturbing the stifling silence, before the door was opened and Soundwave himself stepped inside. "Greeting: Good afternoon," the councilor said softly. He got no response. Hesitantly, he paused, shutting the door behind him an astrosecond later to deter nosey listeners. "Report: Have heard you turned away breakfast. Inquiry: perhaps your appetite would appeal to some lunch?"

Again, no answer. Tracks remained seated, gazing at the wall in worrisome silence. Deliberating a moment, Soundwave walked further into the room, helm canted slightly to try and catch the other's optic. He was surprised and in all fairness worried when he saw that the slave's gaze was unfocused. He had to do something, anything, to break the Autobot from this frightening trance.

"Tracks: About last night...," the telepath began, shoulders weighted with a million of unretractable worries, "Fact: Am sorry about my indecency and the disrespect I have done upon you."

With his helm bowed slightly with contrite, the Decepticon did not see as the slave gave the smallest flinch, breaking free from his catatonic state. Turning his helm slowly, Tracks stared at the councilor, mute. After all he had done to the mech -the screaming, accusing, testing and provoking- and Soundwave had not once whipped him, humiliated him or touched him as any of the others had. The Decepticon was even daft enough to apologize for the insanity that the slave had been insistent to embark upon last night, when it was not his fault nor his idea.

What a sick, senseless, confusing...

Soundwave straightened up once he saw he had Tracks' attention; silently, grateful to know that the multi-coloured mech had not shut himself away. Reaching into his robe, the councilor withdrew a scroll, holding it towards the Autobot. "Status: Have finished the contract for your release. After lunch the metalsmith arrives to-"

"I refuse," the soft tone interrupted.

Surprised, the telepath stared at the other mech, taking a moment to absorb what had just been said. Optics locked onto his visor, Tracks repeated himself. "I refuse."

"...Problem: Am confused," Soundwave started uncertainly. "Tracks: wanted freedom... Correct?"

The Autobot barely batted an optic. "I have not done the work and I refuse to do any at all today. Therefore, I can not be compensated. Keep your contract and send the metalsmith away." Waving a servo flippantly, Tracks turned his helm away, once more staring at the wall.

The councilor though was not so ready to leave. "Protest: But..." The Autobot was adamant to ignore him and, perplexed, what choice did Soundwave have but to respect his wishes? He'd give Tracks anything, as long as it would make the slave happy. Still trying to make sense of what had just happened, Soundwave turned on his heel, heading for the door.

"Her..."

The soft spoken word made him stop just as he rested a servo on the door handle. He glanced back at Tracks, still facing the other way.

"...her name was Moonracer," the Autobot continued quietly. Wings were held stiffly, as if they were bound in place; helm turning barely an inch in the Decepticon's direction. "She..."

Soundwave made no comment on it, but he could hear the strain in Tracks' vocalizer and felt grief peek through the black clouds smothering his thoughts.

"She was my friend, my confidant and my bondmate-to-be. What sickness started, b...bandits were sure to finish. And now she is nothing."

Spark filled with Tracks' own sorrow, the councilor turned his helm away respectively to allow the slave his privacy as tears rolled down his cheekplates silently. He had always known the Autobot had suffered, but to know the full extent of what he'd lost the day he was taken into slavery... Soundwave wished with all his might that he could wrap his arms around Tracks and will all the pain away, but that would be overstepping his boundaries and he knew he would only cause more harm to the other mech than good in the end.

Servo tightening on the handle, the Decepticon looked back at the slave, visor dimmed sympathetically. "Fact: She is not nothing," he kindly said, "Status: She is loved and sourly missed. Wish: She was still here to make you happy, as you were meant to be."

Tracks did not reply, but Soundwave could feel his grief increase tenfold, and knew the doors of the slave's mind were opening as memories overtook his unyielding defenses. "Acknowledgement: Thank you for trusting me enough to share with me her memory," was all the councilor said before he left, giving Tracks the time alone that he deserved.


	12. Chapter 12

He came the next orn and the orn after that, but each time was the same. Tracks refused his contract of release, stating that he had not done his part for the exchange and thus did not deserve it. Soundwave tried numerous times to get Tracks to accept but the Autobot kept refusing, pointing at the layer of dust that had quickly began to grow once more on the library shelves.

"See? Dust. If there is no dust, then the work has been done and I may go," the slave explained. "But, as there is dust, clearly I have not completed my duties and henceforth should receive no reward."

This utterly baffled the councilor. Where before Tracks had been fighting so hard for his freedom, on the brink of a complete breakdown, he had just upped and changed his tune. Now he was being deliberately lazy to stay a slave. Soundwave attempted to prod the other's processor for clues (against his morals, of course) and yet could still glean no answers. There was a deep-seated calmness to Tracks, a vague hint of curiosity to the mortar of his mental blocks yet what was curiouser still was how Soundwave would handle the situation now.

He attempted to change the terms of their agreement so as to push the Autobot's freedom onto him.

"Am I so unsatisfactory?" Tracks glared. "So, what? You want to get rid of me that much?"

Needless to say, a change of tactics had certainly not gone over well with the multi-coloured mech. Having tried almost everything short of merely chopping the slave collar off of Tracks' throat and tossing him out on the street, the Decepticon finally relented to the fact that, strangely, the winged mech did not wish to leave any more. At least, not at this point. And though he would never mention it to anyone, even himself, Soundwave was relieved Tracks would be remaining under his roof. It was one less worry on his shoulders.

**xxXxXxx**

The orns were boring and in this humid heat, trifling. Staring out the one window looking beyond the borders of the compound, Tracks pondered like he always did, while trying to make sense of even his own resistance to being set free. He'd wanted to run away the moment he had been forced into slavery, and despite Soundwave being the polar opposite of what the Autobot knew of slave masters, this palace had felt like a fanciful prison. Now though it didn't strike the mech nearly as stifling or even horrific. It simply was an estate, with beautiful gardens cared by loving gardeners and run by a staff that seemed to admire the Decepticon that employed or owned them all. It hardly seemed right to call it the Pit when there was so much evidence countering that statement.

Shuttering his optics slowly, the Autobot watched as a carriage drove down one of the windy roads just on the edge of his sight, leaning against the sill lazily. A cool breeze whispered past, rustling the short sleeves of Tracks' tunic. His gaze diverted momentarily to stare at the bland fabric, for once actually hating the colour. A servant's colours were few in selection; usually reflecting either the Master's tastes or ranking. They were meant to be indistinct colours so as to strip the servants' of any identity and make it easier for them to do their business in the background.

The winged mech felt as if he was wearing mud of an uncertain hue and was beginning to find the poor choice of colour palette appalling.

Perhaps, maybe...?

Tracks squashed the thought before it could fully form. Though Soundwave so far had shown he was not a total monster like some of his Decepticon kin, the fact remained that the Autobot did not know the councilor very well and it would be wiser if he strayed on the side of caution. After all, good deeds didn't always equate to a good person.

Yet... Soundwave hadn't touched him, even after everything...

The slave vented hot air, feeling his frame mould further against the curve of the sill. His "Master" was indeed a curious one and had warranted Tracks' sudden dismissal of freedom. Out of all the 'bots he had met since his capture, Soundwave did not fit. He showed respect where it should not have been given, and kindness where pain was expected. How he knew about Moonracer, well, Tracks chalked it up to those chattery rapists that sold him into slavery, but the councilor's words...

They stuck still.

For Moonracer's sake, Tracks would stay. He would stay and find out who this mech was that could give her memory so much honour when he didn't even know her or needed to pretend to care.

**xxXxXxx**

Soundwave paced the halls of his estate slowly, worrying. Reports had come in, stating that the Autobot uprising had attacked another slave village successfully. That was the third one so far this week; not to mention, they'd even attacked one of the Empire's smaller towns prided for clothe trade. That was outside of the rebels norm and only proved that they were advancing in their mission. How much farther this would go, the councilor could not be sure, but Lord Megatron had certainly been irate at this latest turn of events.

"They dare attack one of our trade outlets?," he had seethed in court. Shockwave glanced coolly at the Warlord at the use of such tone, before looking forward once more. "The audacity- those pathetic Autobots are beginning to test my patience."

Soundwave had tried to speak in return. "Suggestion: Perhaps Lord Megatron would like to send out scouts? Mission: locate Autobot rebel camps, take note, and prepare for possible infiltration?"

But of course, the Emperor did not care for such subtlety. He'd brushed the blue mech off, glaring at Shockwave. "No. I don't have the 'bots skilled enough nor available to take on such a pointless task. Shockwave and I will discuss a course of action instead. Go, Soundwave; you are relieved for the day." Megatron had rose from his chair then and retreated into his private areas with his assassin, leaving Soundwave to return home with an aching processor and a sour sensation in his fuel tanks.

The Warlord had been really upset. His growing rage at this stab to his pride had sent his thoughts careening and shouting across the entire audience room. Though Soundwave had not paid them direct attention, he could still not completely shake the plots of trickery, imprisonment and genocide from his own helm. He would never contest Megatron on his choices but still the smaller Decepticon felt uneasy. The Autobot rebels had already proven they were more formidable than they had first anticipated... If tested too hard, would they crack and submit, or overcome the ones they viewed as their oppressors?

Soundwave paused in his pacing, venting heavily. To think on this matter was pointless as it was treasonous. If anything, he should be thinking of ways to help combat any more infraction into the Emperor's territory by the rebels and possible re-assimilation of the freed slaves back into their society.

The thought of slaves reminded the councilor of one very special one in particular and he turned on the spot, heading slowly down to the library. It had been a whole month since he'd tried to give Tracks his freedom, but to this orn, the Autobot remained his slave; though there had been a definite improvement. Tracks, for one, seemed to be becoming more mentally sound and he had not had any more violent outbursts towards others or himself. Soundwave did not want to feel happy, for it was not his place, but he couldn't help that little flicker of hope that burned in the depths of his spark. Coming to a pause at the library, the Decepticon knocked gently on the door before stepping inside.

Tracks was staring into the pages of a book, nestled comfortably into one of the plush library chairs; wings facing out over one seat arm, legs draped casually over the other. It took him a moment to turn away from what he was reading, calm, blue optics looking the councilor over.

"Yes?"

Soundwave did not speak for an astrosecond. Truthfully, he didn't have any reason for coming to see the Autobot, other than to check up on his status. But to say that would seem a little callous, as if he did not trust Tracks, and the blue mech really didn't want to upset this pleasant change with anything dumb that he might have to say. Realizing that he was taking too long to say something now, the councilor asked the first thing that popped in his helm: "Inquiry: If you are not busy at the moment, would you like to take lunch with me out in the garden?"

The Decepticon tried not to look as surprised as the slave was; it was harder though when Tracks actually replied.

"...Okay." Tracks tipped his helm to the side slightly as he answered, lip components pursed a little in thoughtfulness. "It is late though. Shouldn't you have eaten lunch a couple cycles ago?"

Casual conversation. This really was a strange and wonderfully new experience. Soundwave felt his circuits hum eagerly, even as he fought to keep his frame as rigid as it had been prior. "Analysis: correct," he said. "Business: extended later than expected. Shall eat now. Fact: Is lovely out. Thought you and I might enjoy an afternoon snack together."

The Autobot turned his attention back to the book and Soundwave felt his confidence falter. Perhaps he had been too brash in asking Tracks to spend time with him. After all- "Yes, it is nice." The soft words interrupted the councilor's train of thought. Looking up, the blue mech was shocked to see Tracks rising to his pedes; arms raised up over his helm as he stretched, giving his wings a little shake as well.

"It's been a while since I've been out in the garden," the slave added, glancing at the Decepticon. "I think I might like to have a little bite out among the flowers."

It felt like the councilor was responding two steps behind. With a belated jolt, he moved to open the door, holding it open for Tracks as he walked past, before hurrying on the other's heels. Soundwave paused only for a moment to tell a passing servant that he was ready to take his lunch now and that Tracks would be joining him, so everything had to be set up in the gazebo. After the servant had hurried off to relay the message to the cooks, the Decepticon pulled up ahead, walking side by side with the Autobots.

Tracks glanced at him with the action, but said nothing. And though it was silent their entire trip to the gardens, it was a pleasant silence that Soundwave found himself enjoying immensely.

**xxXxXxx**

"You've done a lot to this place in the last couple months."

Soundwave looked up from pouring tea into his cup, his optics resting on the winged mech silently staring out over the garden. The heat was moderate this orn, stirring up the pollen but not warping the perfume into a toxic, heady blend; rousing the insects who buzzed actively as a muffled backdrop around them. Setting the teapot back on the tray, the councilor leaned back into his chair, turning his helm so as to appear to be surveying their surroundings but in fact keeping his gaze on the slave.

"Correction: The gardeners have," Soundwave said, servos folded calmly in his lap. "Fact: Very diligent in their work. They take pride in tending to the plants and I am proud of their accomplishments."

"Well, I mean, I know that they are responsible for that," Tracks replied, giving the Decepticon a slightly exasperated look. He turned back to the garden. "But it is your overall decision as to what comes and goes in the garden, is it not? In that way, you too are responsible for the wealthy growth you have here."

That was true, in some aspects, so Soundwave merely nodded and did not press the point that he had not turned one servoful of soil in the seeding of the plants. "Look," the Autobot continued, casually raising a finger and pointing to a cluster of bright flowers thriving within a bush. "Here you have roses." He pointed next to the batch of tall flowers blooming from the bases of the garden's few trees in massive clusters. "And here you have tulips; there is even Jade vine growing up those trunks. You have so many specimens here, most are not even indigenous to this area. How did you ever manage to plant them, let alone make them sprout and thrive?"

The councilor looked over the garden as Tracks spoke, taking note of the species the slave was cataloguing. Roses, Tulips, Jasmine, Hibiscus, Orchids, Gladioli, Laelia, Flame of the Forest, Calatheas... The list went on, and true to what the Autobot said, most were indeed not indigenous to the Empire and thus were a wonder to behold in this garden.

"How did you do it?," Tracks repeated, looking back at Soundwave this time.

The Decepticon smiled beneath the battle mask, inclining his helm toward the plants. "Fact: Have been many places in the name of the Emperor; have seen many gorgeous foliage in my travels. Studied: various species and their habits, before hand-picking two of each for transfer. Potted them and brought them here, myself, before giving my notes to the gardeners and firm instruction on their care," Soundwave answered, a touch of pride filling his tone. "Status: the flowers have flourished beyond expectations."

The slave could hear the pride in the councilor's words and his stare was a silent one as he gazed at the blue mech for a long moment. Soundwave turned his helm a fraction of an inch to Tracks, wondering what he was thinking, while losing himself to how beautiful his optics were and how glorious he looked leaning casually against the gazebo's seating rail. Eventually, the Autobot did avert his optics, returning to his sight-seeing of the garden. "You speak as if this garden were your only treasure," he said softly.

"...Fact: It is," Soundwave replied. "Status: Do not take pleasure out of the slave markets or how they are orchestrated and maintained. Fact: Are a choice of the people and the Empire. Workers: are best when choosing the work themselves, but slaves do exist, thus, will take those into my care when I know I can offer them better than what they are living then and there. Truth: can always buy their freedom back when they wish to here."

Tracks said nothing in response, but the councilor could sense a slight change to the mech. Good or bad, he was not entirely certain.

Standing to his pedes slowly, the Decepticon reached out a servo, politely inviting the other mech to join him. "Inquiry: Would like to show you something. Will you be so kind as to accompany me for a moment?"

The winged slave looked apprehensive at the request, understandably Soundwave felt, but he rose to his pedes after a moment also, to the telepath's great delight. "What are we looking at?," Tracks asked, refusing the offered arm and marching down the gazebo steps.

Soundwave quickly took the lead, keeping the pace short and glancing back frequently to make sure that the thinner mech was following. Tracks, of course, was and the Decepticon made note of how defensive he seemed at constantly being monitored for his obedience. Drawing back the number of times he checked for the other's presence, the councilor quickened his pace, hurrying around the section of brightly coloured Birds of Paradise with the slave a few steps behind.

Turning into the hidden alcove, Tracks was surprised to find the large pathway of limestone broke away to a smaller, tighter path of cobbled fiery-red and black stones. They meandered through the dirt in what seemed a chaotic pattern, partially under brush and grass. It appeared greatly unpleasant -that was until one looked up to where the stone path faded off to nothing but a few stones; marking their end at the front of a white marble bench, set before a gorgeous little pond. Soundwave took that moment to glance back at the Autobot again and felt his spark swell with pride at the glimmer of awe and admiration in the other mech's optics.

The winged slave allowed his gaze to follow slowly across the pond, huddled between large, blossoming trees and bordered by a myriad of colourful flora around the lip and just behind a small mound, erected to make way for a tiny waterfall. In the water itself were a few select species of fish, with glittering scales of orange, red, white and even gold; diving in an out the watery roots of lotus and water lilies that speckled the pond's surface. Tied in with a spattering of sunshine peeking through the curtain of leaves, the entire sight almost magical to behold.

Gaping, Tracks turned his helm slowly toward the councilor, unable to tear his gaze away from the beautiful scenery. "I-is that... Oriental lilies? Mimosa Pudica?! That's -how did you even find Middlemist Reds? Those are so extremely rare!"

Soundwave beamed behind his battle mask. "Inquiry: do you like? Fact: Was-" He never got to finish his sentence though, before the Autobot went rigid; optics narrowing suspiciously.

"Wait a minute...," he muttered angrily. "That's... That's my bedroom window!" His long finger pointed to the frame of a windowsill almost invisible behind the sweeping branches of one of the trees, but it was indeed the window directly to Tracks' selected room. Accusingly, he spun towards the blue mech, all previous contentment and wonder gone, to be replaced with rage. "What's the meaning of this?," he demanded. "You've had people peeping outside my window all this time?!"

"A-assumption: incorrect!," the councilor was quick to say. He held his hands out in front of himself placatingly, keeping his helm tipped downwards an inch. "Status: Knew you liked reading a-and thought... thought, y-you might like your own quiet space, a-away from the sun and prying c-curiosities of t-the other workers."

It was a gift, the slave realized, and his frame softened a tad awkwardly. Glancing around uncertainly as he struggled to find something to say, Tracks saw that the little pond area was secluded, and if he had not noticed this place being built from his room, then surely no one could see through his window either without getting closer. Blue, dimmed optics turned back to Soundwave after a long moment, before he finally vented, arms hugging himself loosely.

"...u-um... Thank you...," he mumbled softly.

The Decepticon shuttered his optics in surprise. He had been certain that their civilized meeting had reached its end with a simple misunderstanding, but just as quickly it had turned itself back around; sure, it was a little awkward now, yet Tracks was not yelling and screaming and turning into a foaming, destructive force before storming off. That was good in itself but Soundwave had never expected a thanks in return, no matter what form. It left him without a doubt stunned... and made a little part inside of himself buzz joyfully.

Pondering for a klik on how to proceed, the blue mech eventually turned slightly back the way they had come, a servo held forward lowly. "Proposition: Have some boltberry tarts and an exotic tea-blend from Vos back at the gazebo. Would you care to sample them with me?"

Tracks looked up at him again, and shrugged, casually, as if nothing almost explosive had just passed between them. "I might as well, seeing as how I'm already here," he replied, taking the lead back to their previous spot.

Soundwave followed quickly.

**xxXxXxx**

Reports were hard to work on after such a orn as his. First, there'd been the stress of the morning that normally would have weighed heavily over Soundwave's helm, but it was a cloud that he could have pushed through all the same. The events that had followed after -the surprising invite and acceptance to tea, accompanied by unexpected and even more pleasurable conversation, and a serene afternoon in the gazebo, drinking tea and eating foreign snacks, before it all had come to an end and they had parted ways; Tracks, to his room for the night, Soundwave to his office- made it impossible to work. Processor buzzing still over little, but well noticed facts of the slave's prior life (like where he went to school, how he knew so much about flora and his favourite authors) was it any shock than that the councilor could not focus on anything else?

Leaning back easily in his chair, the Decepticon vented merrily, completely forgetting about the work he had come to do in the first place. Was it wrong to admit, just to himself at least, that he had enjoyed this afternoon so much? That for once, it felt wonderful to bask in the Autobot's company, admire his beauty, and not be chewed out for it? Quietly, Soundwave wondered to himself if he'd ever have a chance like this again. It was too good to hope for but what if he could just show Tracks that he was different than the others he had come across thus far, maybe they could...?

Across the compound, staring at the ceiling above his berth, the winged slave lay silently. His tunic billowed over the sheets, and absent-mindedly, he was aware that the bottom hemming was lifted too far up his thigh to be considered comfortable given his status. Yet there were bigger things on his processor, filling his thoughts and leaving him mute as he pondered and pondered and pondered. Nothing though could offer him any real answers; not the shadows on the walls, the hollow wardrobe, the whispering garden or the stars that glimmered brightly in the darkening sky above.

While one reminisced and foolishly dreamed, the other pondered and pondered, until the sky lit with fire, announcing the break of dawn.

A night of memories, half-wishes, uncertainties and ever-looping thought processes would decide where their lives would take them as the week wore on.


	13. Chapter 13

**C.M.D: It's been a several months since I've updated this fic as well, but I'm super excited to have a new chapter ready for a brand new year. Even more so because we're getting close to the halfway point, which means everything will be progressing faster from here on in until the end. I hope everyone enjoys this chapter as much as I did writing it!**

Arcee started the orn the same as any orn before. She rose before dawn, took a quick bath and adorned her robes for that orn; then started her chores by helping the chefs clean the fruits and vegetables, before moving on and either cleaning the rooms or running deliveries all over the estate. All of this had to be done by lunch, and, after a short break of her own, she would then continue the rest of her orn with cleaning any rooms left or helping the rest of the staff with the mountains of laundry that had to be taken care of daily.

The femme had just started on her usual routine, heading for the kitchen in the dim light of oncoming morning, when she noticed one of the guards waiting at the end of the slaves' quarters. Slowing, Arcee took a moment to study the strange mech, optics roaming over the strong green frame, noble helm arch and worn but gentle grey faceplates. This was the same guard who had stood at Tracks' door, back when she had been assigned to the Autobot.

Finally coming up to the guard, the slave noticed that the stranger was turning to meet her, and she paused in alarm. As a rule, guards and slaves quarters were far away from each other. One could not trespass to the other hall without evoking severe punishment for breaching rank. Had she then committed some sort of crime?

"U-um... Hi," the mech began, coughing uncomfortably, "I-i apologize for this sudden meeting. I'm -you're not in trouble by the way- I just..."

The guard trailed off awkwardly and Arcee forced herself to calm down, realizing that she wasn't in any trouble, as he had said. If she was, he probably would have been accompanied by a second guard; plus, his failing words were doing nothing to make him seem authoritative and instead, left an undeniable adorable aura about him. Smiling despite herself, the femme was caught off-guard when the stranger smiled in return, frame relaxing in her presence.

"I'm sorry. Let me begin again," he said, bowing forward slightly. A scandalous action, for no slave was worthy of such respect from anyone of higher status. Still, his smile did not fade and his surprisingly blue optics glowed with warmth and honour as they shone on her. "My name is Springer and I've been thinking of you too long now to ignore the need to know who you are. May I have the privilege of knowing your name?"

Cheekplates flushed, Arcee could only stare back in shock as the guard spoke; touched by his words and surprised to see the tiny glint of a slave collar peeking from the gaps in his armour. Realizing she had been silent for much too long, and that her apparent admirer was beginning to tense at suspected rejection, the femme instinctively reached forward and grabbed the servo waiting suspended in the air. "O-oh!," she gasped, dropping it an astrosecond after, blushing further. "I-i apologize, I-"

The guard chuckled, rich and deep, and the slave looked up, feeling her spark thrum calmly at the glorious sound. "Please don't apologize," Springer replied, "It's a pleasure to feel the softness of your servo. One that I won't take lightly."

Optics turned down demurely, but still glittering, Arcee felt her smile sweeten even more. "You're too kind, sir. And...," she finally said, sensing the guard tense in anticipation. It was enough to make her want to giggle. "My name is... Arcee."

"Arcee...," the mech repeated, tasting each of the syllables, his cheekplates spread with a foolish grin.

A couple chuckles escaping, the femme curtsied and quickly excused herself, citing that she had duties waiting for her that very moment. She didn't glance back as she hurried on down the hall, but Arcee could feel Springer's gaze following her every pedestep and the slave gave into shy daydreams as she headed for the kitchen, unable to banish the twinkle from her optics.

**xxXxXxx**

Morning sunlight poured into the library, making the entire room glow with golden light. Moving about languidly, Tracks re-shelved a series of tomes, having just finished wiping down and polishing the wooden bookshelf. Setting the last one in place, the slave stepped back, unwinding the clean rag from around his servos as he admired his handiwork. It had taken some time and a fair amount of patience, but half of the library had been restored to its former glory. It truly was a beautiful room, and reminded of that, Tracks touched the key resting against his chestplates beneath his tunic.

Having some form of physical labour brought some meaningful and long-missed familiarity to the slave's life, that at a moment like this, he sometimes forgot that the library wasn't just a task he had to complete -it was his very own property, or so Soundwave had said. The very idea was incongruous to the core definition of 'slave'. Not just that, the Autobot reminded himself quietly, he also now had his own personal garden nook for reading. It was a gorgeous spot, filled with light, sweet perfume and the gentle babble of its little pond. Another illustrious location privy to a wild and unmanageable serf...

If Tracks wasn't so fond of his latest treasure, he may have been more suspicious.

Yet, for all his vile thoughts and cruel assumptions, Soundwave had still not used his position to extort anything out of the Autobot in return. Things had truly taken a strange turn.

Stroking the spine of a recognizable book, Tracks almost missed the door creaking open behind him; a gentle knock echoing in the stuffy atmosphere. "Greetings: Tracks," came Soundwave's vocalizer.

Turning, with book in servo, the Autobot faced his visitor neutrally, setting all his things down on the nearest table. "Hello," he replied, "I was wondering when you'd stop by."

The moment the words left his mouth, the councilor's visor flashed in shock, and even Tracks realized how surreal the situation had suddenly become. Silence fell between the two mechs, and not knowing what to say at the strange comment that had just escaped him, the slave turned away and tidied up his cleaning supplies distractedly.

"A-anyways...," he finally forced out, when Soundwave continued to say nothing in response, "What brings to the library today?"

The telepath drew nearer, taking care to not pry into the forming gaps appearing in the other mech's firewalls. "Status: Wished to invite you to lunch again. If you were willing," he announced, circling about and allowing the table to stand between the two of them. To give the Autobot his rightful space.

"Oh?"

"Affirmative. Unfortunately: not plausible. Status: Running late in a few meetings and must head into the city to finish estate business," Soundwave finished, trying to hide the tinge of disappointment he felt. He'd really wanted to spend what precious time he had with Tracks, even just to bask in the consistently growing comfort and silence.

Tracks hummed, but he still didn't turn about, instead moving on and even wiping at already clean shelves. "You must be awfully busy then. I hope it doesn't become a burden."

The councilor smiled under his battle mask, chestplates swelling out a bit. Though probably just said for convenience than any sincerity, it was still wonderful to hear such kind sympathies from the winged mech. Enjoying himself and trying to keep the conversation going for at least a little while longer, Soundwave glanced at the table, studying its possessions as he said, "Fact: No task too burdensome to..."

"...To?," Tracks asked, glancing back when the Decepticon did not continue after a klik.

The Autobot stiffened when he noticed that the telepath was holding the book he had pulled earlier, thumbing through the pages. "Inquiry: ...you read Sanskrit?"

"Yes," the slave was hesitant to answer. He played with his polishing rag idly, watching, curious yet anxious to hear what the blue mech had to say.

But Soundwave was not even looking up. His visor glowed softly, focused intently only on the tome he held. "Mahabbharata... Status: Is the oldest of collection and favourite," the councilor said. He spoke low, almost gentle, and Tracks wondered if he was even being spoken to. When the red glass lifted and focused on him, the Autobot felt struck by a strange sense of deja vu -wide, blue frame and pleasant rumble, transforming to a tiny, slim build and sweet melody.

"I think I've read this a hundred times," echoed Moonracer's vocalizer within a smile, "And no matter what, Bhagavad-Gita is by far my most favourite of the tales. Wouldn't you agree Tracks?"

"...Tracks?"

"W-what?," the Autobot choked as the vision faded, finding the councilor standing unnaturally close; the light of his visor looking strangely concerned. "I-i...I'm fine. Um..."

Soundwave stood there awkwardly, uncertain about what to do. He had just been sharing with the slave how the book he held was one of his favourites, when Tracks' mind had darkened with a sudden stab of despair and unsettling loneliness. Despite not meaning to pry, the telepath could easily glean Moonracer's presence in the miserable slave's spark and the unsuspecting connection that one of his coveted reads revealed between the three of them. Nervously, the blue mech set the book aside and blurted out the first thing that came to his frazzled processor, "Offer: would you like to come to the meeting with me?"

Tracks paused, and even his tumultuous thoughts stilled, as he absorbed what had just been said. His expression matched Soundwave's: shocked, curious and a touch suspicious. Yet, despite not meaning to make the suggestion, the councilor was loathe to retract his invite. It was actually a brilliant compromise; he would make his appointments as necessary and still partake in the company of his much beloved slave.

"...Status: Do not have to accompany me personally to meeting. May browse marketplace with an attendant on hand while busy and, afterwards, catch a bite at the local thermopolia," he elaborated as the other's silence kept, his own tone sure as his eagerness grew. "Fact: Has been a while since you have last left the estate."

That last part was true...

It had been decaycles -no, almost two whole stellar cycles really- since Tracks had been purchased by Soundwave. And in all that time, he'd only been outside of the compound once, very early on in his transfer here. A trip out on the town was a highly tempting idea and the slave was having difficulty finding reasons as to why he should reject the proposition. At the very least, it would allow him a good distraction from what had just taken place and the aching in his spark over long-ago losses.

"O...Okay," the winged mech breathed, the words almost silent as they escaped him. No other words had ever felt so heavy, but as they left, they took with them an unfathomable weight; leaving behind a stirring hope and a small spark of excitement.

The Decepticon puffed out his chest, equally as joyous, reaching into his robe and pulling out a satchel. "Some of the wages you have made," he explained, holding it out for Tracks to take. "Status: so you may buy whatever you like while at the market."

The slave's optics flared even brighter than before. This would be the first time that he had seen, let alone possess, any credits in a long time, since his capture. The sight of the small satchel, and the clinking weight of its leather hide as it was set into his outstretched servo, cemented the possibility of a future without masters or slave collars. He could really one orn soon be free. "T... thank you," came the soft-spoken gratitude, "For keeping your promise. You didn't... you didn't really have to."

If it had not been for his battle mask, Tracks would have seen the loving smile that spread across Soundwave's face or how his optics dimmed into an expression of empathetic sympathy. "Assumption: incorrect," he replied. "Status: Had to keep promise. Tracks: Worthy of nothing less."

"Suggestion: Perhaps would like to bathe and refresh before our trip?," the councilor added quickly, needing to leave the other mech's presence before he did something out of turn, such as cup those gorgeous cheeks.

At the mention of a bath, Tracks looked himself over, suddenly noticing how filthy he was. Servos were stained in varying patches of dark brown from the wood polish, tunic grimy in places and bearing stringy wisps of cobweb, and a film of dust covered the slave from helm to pede. A bath and fresh clothes sounded wonderful about now. "Y-yeah, I think I will do just that," he said, blushing a little in embarrassment.

Soundwave nodded. "Status: Will inform servants to draw a bath for you, while the carriage is prepared in the meantime."

Getting to his pedes, the Autobot stared at his master, feeling the words rise unbidden within him. "T...Thank you." But even after they were said, he didn't feel a need to take them back. Not this time.

The blue mech jolted a tiny bit at the appreciation, having not expected to hear such a show of gratitude again a second time in an orn. He could only nod his helm foolishly at the slimmer mech, inform him that he'd be waiting at the front of the estate when he was finished getting ready, and then walk weakly from the room like a love-struck fool.

**xxXxXxx**

The marketplace was a lot busier than Tracks ever remembered. People packed in from almost all sides, stalls lining every available wall and some even erected in the middle of the streets and squares, back to back and side to side. Wares were swollen on tables and hanging from tiny canopies set over the stall to provide shade and comfort; there was so much merchandise that some of it piled up or spilled over onto the street in front or beside each booth. The stone street beneath could hardly be seen amidst the tromping pedes, as their owners weaved back and forth in a never-ending procession of coming and going. One could barely move without being stepped or stepping on, and with all the noise, being heard especially was a task best left forgotten.

Stepping down from the cab, Tracks pondered just forgetting his excursion altogether in favor of staying in the safe and cool carriage. But the attendants that Soundwave had left behind for him were watching, and the slave was loathe to have them think him a coward nor undergo their scrutiny up close. Immediately, a few glances were sent his way, and Tracks tried to hide his scowl as much as possible from the prying optics. It was obvious that he was garnering some attention in front of the carriage, dressed in his flat brown tunic and bearing a slave collar for all to see, but that didn't mean he cared for the disdainful looks he was receiving.

He was here to enjoy himself and Unicron be damned if the Autobot was about to let others take this rare pleasure from him. Strutting proudly forward, Tracks weaved into the hustle-and-bustle seamlessly, moving like a dancer to keep from getting jostled by another 'bot or have his wings accidentally clipped. It did not escape his notice though, as he looked through each of the stalls and their wares, that people were pausing in their shopping, turning to stare. An Autobot slave alone in the marketplace was rare... one with wings, even more so.

Realizing this himself, Tracks felt a chill run down his backstruts. His last trip to the market had ended horribly... With clawing servos grabbing at his frame and slipping under clothing. Vagabonds had called him beautiful and had paid little notice to his master's high ranking. Would simple civilians do the same for a chance to have such an exotic creature the likes as which Tracks' poised?

Turning and staring back at each member of his audience with a mean optic, the slave hurried on his way; chin held up vainly and wings flared stubbornly. He wouldn't be cowed by strangers, he decided. He'd refused to take any flak from Soundwave and that went the same for the citizens of his cruel and vile empire.

A flash of colours caught the edge of his peripheral and slowing, the Autobot circled and weaved through the crowds toward the source. He found himself before a stall boasting a large and varied selection of colorful fabric. One such roll of clothe called to the mech and he stepped closer to the stand, unable to look away.

"What do you want?," an impatient vocalizer snapped, and, glancing down, Tracks was met by the sight of a tiny femme glaring up at him from behind the counter. "I have no time for mischievous, lil' serfs," she started viciously, "So you just-"

"I want to purchase some of your wares," Tracks interrupted. The Decepticon vendor shuttered her optics in surprise, before her face tightened again, servos propped on her hips.

"Oh? And with what credit might I ask?," she snidely demanded.

The Autobot scowled back, but only pulled out his coin purse, the one Soundwave had given him, and shook it before the old femme. "The credit that I earn as allowance for my work," he answered. "Now, I'd like to see that roll right there." A slender finger pointed behind the merchant, to a slim reel of vibrant turquoise, that shimmered in the light like gentle lapping waves.

"That be silk," the femme informed crisply. "There be no way a serf have credit enough for a shawl."

"Surely I must have enough for that," Tracks quipped back, holding out his purse for the vendor. "Count it! I know I have plenty enough."

The Decepticon only narrowed her optics, but she took the purse, and before the slave's gaze, counted out each coin. At the end, she tossed it back into the leather pouch and dropped it to the counter, crossing her arms over her chestplates. "Aye, you have enough... for a straggly strip no bigger in length than your forearm."

"Fine," the winged mech seethed, having grown tired of the femme and her discrimination. Though he detested her attitude, he would not give up his quest to owning even a swatch of that beautiful fabric. He had a right to buy it, slaggit! "Cut it for me then."

The femme jolted in surprise, but as Tracks did not back down, she had no choice but to turn away and unroll the silk. Her dagger cut true and clean, creating a swatch eleven by fourteen inches across; true to her word, about the size of his forearm and hardly of any use. Tracks took the fabric as the merchant counted out her take, mulling over what to do with the sheet. As she handed him his purse back, three times lighter than it had been previously, an epiphany came to him.

"...Do you have any smaller swatches for scraps that I may browse through?," he asked. "I will pay to take them off your servos."

The Decepticon gave him a weird look but hauled a woven basket up onto the table from her side of the stall and said, "Knock yourself out," before deciding to ignore the slave. Paying her no mind, Tracks sifted through the cut up fragments with one servo; the other holding on tightly to his purchase and his leftover coin. It took a bit of searching, but he eventually found two small swatches of equal size, in pale yellow and coral dyed wool. It cost him the rest of his credits (the thieving glitch) but the Autobot walked away, content still with his finds. The merchant may have thought she had given him useless material, but with the right seamstress, Tracks could fashion a slim belt out of his clothe.

And that was good enough by him.

Weaving back through the crowds, Tracks made his way to the carriage, eager to get out of the sun and rest his pedes for a bit.

**xxXxXxx**

The end of an orn came with exhausted relief, for though she would never complain even once about her work, it still was taxing on small frames. Alone in the slaves' bath house, Arcee quickly stripped and sponged down using the water in the waiting buckets, before throwing a fresh tunic on for the night. Her clothes from the orn were carried to the basket inside the main house, where it would be washed along with the rest of the slaves' and servants' clothes the next orn. It was seemingly never-ending work but the femme was safe, fed and privileged, and thus content in the routine.

Of course, there was something a little extra to be happy about.

Cheekplates glowing with an impeding blush, Arcee tried to hold in her giggles, eager to return to her room and the flower that was pressed beneath her sleeping mat. Springer had come to see her once every orn thus far, usually before her work began and his had ended, and though their time was really short together, the guard tried to make the best of it. He spoke to her sweetly, softly, and though it was his intent from using too many notes of affection in his words, the slave could still hear them resonant in his vocalizer. It was sudden and unexpected, but Arcee was just as caught up in the pooling love quickly filling her spark.

There had never been a time in her life prior where she had been given the chance to feel this way before and the femme was loathe to let it go to waste so soon.

Caught up in daydreams about what tomorrow's meeting with Springer would bring her, the maidservant missed the mech approaching her from the other side of the hallway. It wasn't until they said "Wait" that Arcee realized with a frightened jolt she wasn't alone. Turning, the smaller Autobot looked to see her visitor, jolting again when she saw that it was Tracks looking down on her.

"T-tr-tracks, s-sir-!"

"Before you say anything," the winged mech spoke up quickly, servo lifted in placation, "I just... I-i'm... Sorry. About before. I..." His optics glanced down and away from the femme, dim and contrite. "I was in a bad place. I shouldn't have treated you that way or did any of that."

The way the other Autobot looked, more than his apology, shocked Arcee. Deliberating, the femme thought about what to say, before smiling kindly and stepping up under Tracks' line of sight. "I-it's, um, a-alright. Did... d-did you want to see me about something?," she asked.

At her offered distraction, Tracks leapt, holding out a small leather bag. Taking it and pulling open the drawstrings, Arcee saw that there were a few bits of folded fabric within. "Would you... Can you sew?," the mech questioned, while the femme was still baffled at the sight of the items.

"U-uh, yes, I can," the maidservant replied, looking up. "You wanted me to sew this?"

"Yes," Tracks nodded, "I know there's not a lot of material, but if you cut the silk into thinner strips, you should be able to fashion a nice belt or sash. You can use the wool to connect the strips."

"Oh!," Arcee exclaimed, shuttering her optics in surprise. The suggestion was different, but not outside of her comfort zone. A seamstress she wasn't, but the femme did know how to sew. "Um, yes, I can do that! Easily!"

Tracks finally looked her back in the optics and the relief was so apparent, it was almost sparkbreaking. "If... I'm sorry, I know you were going to retire to bed, but would you mind making this for me tonight?," the mech asked. "I didn't know who else to ask."

The femme nodded and gestured for the bigger slave to follow. "Sure," she answered. "We'll go to the seamstress' shop and make it there; she has everything we'll need. This colour will look fantastic on you by the way! Blue compliments you so nicely."

Tracks said nothing about the remark, staring at an oblivious Arcee as they walked, with a queer expression on his face.

**C.M.D: Be kind; give me your mind~ REVIEW, please?**


	14. Chapter 14

**C.M.D: I'm feeling unwell, so update period is happening a day earlier this month. Please enjoy some Tracks and Soundwave goodness!**

The following orn brought bright sunlight and even sweeter bird song, as Soundwave arose, heading straight into the task of washing himself and donning clean robes, before finally exiting his quarters. He mulled through his mental list of duties that orn and found he had little waiting on him to do. With a flash of excitement, the councilor immediately headed for the library. He passed a servant along the way and he stopped them for a moment, instructing that his breakfast be brought to the library, and extra for Tracks as well.

Once done, there was nothing stopping the Decepticon from his destination. "Greetings: Tracks," he called, rapping on the door surely, then entering. "Inquiry: How fares your morn?"

He watched as the slave turned at his entrance, standing atop a ladder, one arm laden with books and the other gripping the bookshelf. Realizing that he had intruded when the Autobot was carrying out a delicate task, Soundwave apologized; dutifully ignoring the fact, that from this angle, he could clearly see under the tunic's hem.

"My morning's... well...," Tracks replied, quickly coming down the ladder. He put the books he carried beside others stacked on the nearest table; dusting his servos off with a clean rag and facing the councilor. "Did you need something?"

Soundwave stalled. It was hard to fathom sometimes just how beautiful the winged mech was. Without the creases of rage and even in the absence of smiles, Tracks' visage was a blessing to behold. Optics the colour of a deep sky blue shone brightly behind glittery frames, rouge lip components shimmered glisteningly even without gloss... and this was with a neutral expression, no less! Gaze dropping unconsciously, the Decepticon found himself tracing down wings and chestplates, until he came to an abrupt halt at the belt tied loosely around the cocked hip.

Noticing that his master's gaze was now focused on his waist, Tracks stiffened, courage fleeing, aware that he was tip-toeing a dangerous line. "I-it's, um, I-"

The councilor lifted a servo and for once, the Autobot fell quiet at the gesture; wings hitched high and spark flaring in sickening bursts. "Status: Not an issue," Soundwave informed, "Query: Your purchase from the market yesterday?"

The slave nodded silently.

Smiling beneath his mask, the Decepticon held back his chuckles, staring at the belt a moment longer before finally meeting the other's gaze. "Fact: Matches your optics," he said with sudden realization. "Belt: Gorgeous."

Blue optics shuttered at the double compliment, shyly glancing aside as their owner tried to cool the heat he could feel rushing to his cheekplates. Clearing his vocalizer awkwardly, Tracks fiddled with the stacked books as a means to distract himself. "Y-yes, well, I enjoy the colours. Kinda brightens things up and I didn't think there'd be an issue over a little belt anyways."

"Status: no issue," Soundwave assured a second time. He paused, thinking for a moment. "...Tracks: would prefer some new tunics? In more vibrant colours?"

"W-what?!," the slave spluttered, whirling around in alarm. Seeing that the Decepticon didn't move to correct himself, Tracks had no choice but to accept that the blue mech had said what he'd said, and rapidly shook his helm in protest as response. "N-no, listen, I-i'm fine. These tunics are all I need, a-and if I really want something, I-i'll purchase it myself when I next have the credits too. D-don't be giving me any special treatment."

Unspoken and understandably ignored by both parties was that of course Tracks had already been receiving such privileges. Nodding, so as to move the conversation on to less strenuous topics, Soundwave opened his mouth to invite the Autobot to breakfast when a knock at the door beat him to it.

"Master," the servant bowed minutely as they entered, carrying two laden trays of food, "Your breakfast, as requested." Two more servants followed the first, setting the meal down on one of the clean, vacant tables and arranging everything accordingly. The first servant hung back as the other two then bowed and left, approaching Soundwave respectively.

"As well, my Lord," he addressed, pulling a sealed scroll from his tunic sash, "A message comes from the Emperor. The messenger awaits in the foyer for your response."

Soundwave held in his vent as he took the proffered scroll, knowing with great certainty that it meant another long trip from home. All the same, he did not open it then and there. "Order: Inform guest that his response will take some time. Status: Is breakfast and have not even eaten yet," he said, a little wariness seeping into his tone. "Request: Offer him some refreshment until reply has been made."

"Of course, Master," the servant replied. He too bowed. "Enjoy your meal."

"...Another message?," Tracks asked, as the staff left. "What's it about?"

The councilor smiled weakly beneath his battle mask at the other's curiosity, but refrained from answering just then as he unrolled the scroll. True to his predictions, it was another summons to investigate further troubles along the Empire's borders. "...Status: Is another sendoff at His Emperor's request," Soundwave answered softly. "Fact: Will be a month-long trip."

"Ah...," the slave returned, his vocalizer flat and emotionless. Glancing at the winged mech, the Decepticon was touched to almost see a concerned gleam in the other's optics, but it was not enough to shake away the deepening sorrow taking hold in his spark.

Never had Soundwave thought he'd be leaving his home so often, and just when things were finally becoming better between himself and Tracks, it was the very last thing that the telepath wanted to do. "Request: come," he started with a more jovial tune, turning to the waiting Autobot, "Status: Breakfast is served and have not heard that you ate yet. Fact: Would be honoured if you joined me today."

"Okay," Tracks answered to the councilor's silent plea, walking forward and taking a seat in the chair Soundwave kindly pulled out for him. It was to be his last breakfast in his home for the rest of the month, the blue mech knew, but he hoped that this would just be the first of many he'd share with the beautiful slave once he returned.

**xxXxXxx**

Watching from his favourite spot within the library, Tracks saw as Soundwave's coach finally drew away from the estate; the horses moving quick as they raced down the winding street to the city below. It was hard to tear away from his perch, even after the carriage had vanished from view, but in time the mech did just that. He turned and studied the library, divided in its state of glory and disrepair, noting the despairing similarities between this room and his own processor.

He wanted to hate Soundwave...

He had every right to, Tracks argued. After everything that he had endured the orn of his capture, there was justification enough to loathe everyone and everything that supported a society that protected and endorsed his assailants.

Yet, when the messenger had brought a summons for the councilor to once again leave...

It had struck him alarmingly deep. There was a fear within the Autobot that flashed into life that very moment; a plea for the blue mech to decline the mission almost tripping off his glossa before he had wisely strangled it.

Why had he come to feel this way, the winged slave wondered in sheer bafflement. There was no reason for it. Not even concern over his own fate or the trepidation of being auctioned off to another master compared to the honest and true worry he felt for Soundwave and Soundwave alone. Was he...? Getting to his pedes, Tracks tried to distract himself with his chores, yet the urge to work had left him early that orn. Instead, he drifted through the stacks, optics and fingers caressing down book spines until he came across a familiar title. Holding in an intake, the slave pulled _Mahabbharata_ down from its place, cradling the tome between his two servos.

"...it's just a book...," the mech mumbled to himself.

Yet, it wasn't anymore, was it? It was his only connection to Moonracer -from beginning to end- and now it tethered both him and Soundwave together. _Strange coincidences rule our lives_ , Moonracer had once said to him, _but at the end, they don't seem so strange._

Backing gently into a chair, Tracks thumbed the book open, startling when a slip of parchment fluttered out from between the pages. Scooping, the Autobot picked it up, flipping it over and reading the fine scrawl written in Sanskrit on its face. _'This book, along with any other favourites you may find, are yours,'_ the note read. _'From now, until the orn when you are ready to leave, they remain as such. I know you will cherish them well. Your intellect knows no bounds.'_

Unbidden, tears rose to his optics, making it almost impossible to distinguish the name penned at the bottom. But, the slave knew it was Soundwave's signature- it always was him. To accept his brazen behavior over the belt without second thought, to grant him possessions, to allow him to work for his freedom and never once force himself upon the mech like others had...

"W-why...," Tracks croaked, swimming gaze fixed on the book he clutched to dearly, "H-how am..."

In his distressed state, he saw delicate servos appear, folding over his own where they lay like a gossamer screen. Glancing up, he saw a sweet face smiling back at him sadly and his tears swelled at the image. "I-i ca-can't...," the Autobot gasped, "I-i can't l-let you g-go... W-what a-am I su-supposed to d-do th-then?"

He could almost feel as Moonracer cupped his cheek then, his spark flaring hotly in the warmth of her imagined presence. "One path ends, as they all must someday," Tracks could practically hear her speak, "But another road always waits at the end, even if it's one you must forge yourself. If you fear you are lost, take to the sky, my love... These wings will carry you and a new path will appear beneath your unfaltering gaze. I never was afraid when I stared into your beautiful, courageous optics."

Sniffling, Tracks onlined his optics, not knowing when he had closed them nor how the time had flown in his absent-mindedness. Staring out into the orange horizon, the slave rose to his pedes, glancing down at the book and note clenched tight in each servo. His spark still ached, but the cracks in his mind had lessened. He longed for Moonracer, every orn and every night, and might still for the rest of his life... But, his delusions had been correct. It was time the Autobot release her, so her spark might rest peacefully with Primus, just as it was meant to. In the mean time, fortune had shined down upon him in his darkest hours and had delivered him to a place that, without him noticing, had slowly started to heal Tracks of his most grievous wounds.

"...It always starts with a book," the mech smiled minutely, thumbing _Mahabbharata_ 's worn cover, "Funny, isn't it Moonracer?"

A lone bird chirped cheerfully into the dusk and Tracks quickly tidied up the library, before leaving the room for the night; processor already lost in thoughts and musings about the weeks to come.

**xxXxXxx**

"Inquiry: Where are the bodies?," Soundwave asked flatly, coming over the rise. His entourage, of personal assistant and several of the Empire's soldiers, followed. The chief of the squadron kept with the councilor's stride, pointing ahead to the large pit dug earlier by his subordinates.

"In here," the mech answered, going right to the edge of the hole. "We started collecting the bodies as per routine. After the third dozen, we decided one large burial compared to a hundred smaller ones would be more effective. We stopped the moment one of our seniors noticed the wounds on the dead."

Soundwave peered into the hole, truly not caring. He didn't want to be here, he sensed in the others' minds that they knew that, yet the telepath wasn't one to care for his reputation at this moment. What was the point? It was already apparent that this was another raid by the Autobot outcasts and the only thing demonstrated in this case was that they had been getting better at their rescues. Better, stronger and more skilled. Visor flashing in the bright sunlight, Soundwave quickly noted the types of wounds visible in each of the grey frames filling the bottom below, reluctant but aware he had a report to prepare for his Emperor by the time he returned home.

"You may want to see this too, sir," the soldier interrupted respectively, one servo pointing to the gathered bodies waiting behind him, to be tossed into the hole with the others after the councilor's visit. Following his fellow Decepticon over, Soundwave took to one knee and rolled the frames over himself.

He could hear the soldiers begin to protest, but he waved them off, not in the mood to put up with ridiculous etiquette and hierarchy status scrap. The sooner this mission was complete, the sooner he could return home. Pulling back a dead guard's armor, the blue mech paused, alarmed by the broken staff in the corpse's abdomen and the slash through his neck cables. Moving with purpose, Soundwave checked each and every single one of the bodies in queue for the pit, before stepping back -robe and servos covered in blackening energon- staring in quiet horror at the dead. There were shards of spear heads and staffs, the remains of arrows and fletchings, and most predominantly, each grey frame carried one, or two maximum, killing blows.

There was nothing haphazard about this slaughter, nor anything sloppy; this was tried and true tactics. _Empire war tactics_. "...Query: Remaining supplies discovered?," Soundwave asked, nausea stirring his fuel tanks.

The soldier straightened to attention at the question, squeezing his helmet tightly as he answered crisply. "Our men have searched every inch of the village and even its borders, sir, while we awaited your arrival. Every kinsmech of the Empire is accounted for in these piles," he said, "And the only remaining supplies discovered were of few clothe, steel and masonry work, sir."

"Status: Slaves?," the blue mech asked, facing the younger Decepticon. He was certain of the other's answer even before he spoke, but he needed to hear his suspicions confirmed aloud from someone else.

"...Gone, sir," the soldier was hesitant to answer. His stance loosened and his optics stared back at the councilor disrespectfully, his mind flaring with anxious thoughts. "We have checked the registry and every slave is unaccounted for -dead or alive."

"Sir...?," the soldier started hesitantly. He paused to lick at his lip components, fighting back nerves. "There have been... rumors... of an uprising by the slaves. With today's death toll, and the missing slaves and guard weaponry, are we facing a... a possible... war?"

Without a second thought, Soundwave shook his helm, gesturing for his attendant to come forward and taking the waterskin from him to wash his servos. "Rumors: insubstantial poppycock," he lied, sensing the gathered soldiers' disbelief and suspicion, "Status: Emperor oversees all and no army -slave or otherwise- has been detected by his Lordship. Army: would be summoned and collected for preparations, if such arose."

"Understood," the soldier replied quietly, "Sir." He looked at the rest of his men and began ordering them to shove the rest of the dead into the pit, while Soundwave finished cleaning his servos and headed back down the hillside. His carriage waited for him at what once used to be entrance into the village, yet the councilor did not walk for it.

"Order: Stand by the carriage," he told his attendant, visor surveying the rest of the dilapidated houses, "Status: Will inspect village further before leaving." The servant nodded and did as the Decepticon commanded, while Soundwave wandered off into one of the many rubble-strewn streets.

Away from the company of any prying optics, the councilor felt his knees almost buckle beneath him and his spark drop to his roiling fuel tanks. It was with a horrid certainty that he knew his Emperor would not take this report well. For who in their right mind could read that an inevitable war was upon them, and still act as if all of that had transpired recently was a disobedient child's game, taken too far?

More than anything, Soundwave realized just then and there how much he had to lose should war descend upon Iacon.

**xxXxXxx**

The orns grew warmer as the week wore on and by the time the second week came, Tracks had finally tired of his disgusting, muddy tunics and craved for something more vibrant. It was a sort of an awakening, he recognized, as his spark began to lighten from its constant burdens, it too wished to shed these primus-awful colours and don something more akin to the life burning in the Autobot's chestplates. Thus, Tracks found himself in a hard place. A servant, especially a slave, were not allowed to wear colours deemed above their station... and almost everything that could be considered a real colour was above his "status". Soundwave was not here, so the winged mech could not receive his due credits nor could he get down to the marketplace to buy more clothe to make new tunics with. And without his master's say so, any action taken by Tracks otherwise would be considered thieving and would land him in prison or worse.

Unless...

Tracks pondered and dithered for the longest time, remembering that he did actually have more colourful clothing... that he had refused and spitted and shrieked about until they were taken away from him and these distasteful tunics replaced them. In hindsight, they weren't awful, those robes, and the colours... Oh, the variety and texture of that luxurious clothe.

Silently, the mech began to long for his previous clothes back, and he decided one orn, he would get them back.

Skipping breakfast, the slave immediately began his hunt to find where his things had been taken. Too proud to ask for assistance, nor wanting to admit to anyone that now he wanted those "whorish things" -his previous statements- the Autobot decided to start in all the known storage rooms on the estate, before circling back to the bathroom and his room hallway. Every room, every wardrobe and trunk, had so far led him nowhere and it was with growing frustration that Tracks finally stumbled upon his discarded possessions.

Sitting alone, in a sparse room filled only with a spare table and couch, sat the large trunk; covered in a layer of dust, having been untouched for so long. Cautiously, Tracks undid the straps and lifted the lid, sighing in relief when the rainbow of silk met his optics. Not a single moth or any other creepy crawly in sight! Fingers brushed over the first layers of clothe and a shiver of anticipation ran through the slave. This was it, he remarked to himself, no going back after this.

Despite his hungry search for personality, to wear these again meant...

Tracks didn't even bother to give it a second thought. He made sure the clothes were tucked inside properly, then he shut the lid; attempting at first to lift the trunk, before that proved too difficult and opted to drag it out of the room by one handle. His mind was set and his spark was at ease for once. There was not a thing in the world that could make the Autobot regret the decision he had made.

"Hey, what are you doing?"

...Well, maybe not regret, but still cringe like a guilty child. Gathering his composure quickly, Tracks rose to his pedes, facing the guard as he slowly approached. The Decepticon was scowling, one servo on the pommel of his sword as he strode forward, eyeing the trunk by the slave's pedes. "What's that?," he demanded.

"These are my things," Tracks replied smoothly, arms crossed loosely over his chestplates, "I'm merely relocating them to my room, where they belong in the first place, but I'm having trouble with the weight. If you'd be so kind, take this to my room immediately."

The guard stared at the brazen slave for a long moment, long enough for Tracks to feel his courage begin to slip, but in amazing response, the Decepticon actually bent and lifted the trunk in one easy swoop. "As you wish," he said to the surprised Autobot. "Master Soundwave wishes that all your needs be met when asked, but perhaps next time summoning a couple of us ahead of time would spare you any impatience or injury."

Tracks could only nod his helm, completely mute, even to the obvious annoyance in the guard's tone. He followed, belatedly, after the guard's heels as he began to carry the trunk to the slave's room, marveling at how much stature he held -over a guard, no less! In the back of his processor, Tracks recalled Arcee commenting on how much power Soundwave had given the other Autobot, and here in this moment, it revealed itself to be true.

Status, work, respect, dignity...

_'You've given more than I even deserved,'_ Tracks thought to himself, his mind flashing to the councilor. _'Will I ever be able to repay you...?'_

No answers now, but it would give the winged mech something to think about, when he began to worry about the telepath's status on slow, dull orns.

**C.M.D: Be kind; give me your mind~ REVIEW, please?**


	15. Chapter 15

**C.M.D: And we're back again another month! I'm glad to be posting but my real excitement right now is for TFcon, that is taking place in a few short days! My first time meeting Peter Cullen alongside Michael McConnohie, the fabulous voice actor of G1 Tracks! So much gushing will be had! So while I squeal about that, please, squeal over this new chapter!**

Soundwave was glad when rough, uneven dirt roads finally led to smooth and familiar cobbled paths; the looming walls of Iacon city appearing outside his carriage window. Leaning back inside, the councilor smoothed out the parchment on his writing brick, staring at the beginning trails of his report. The words all felt disjointed, reflecting his scattered thoughts and his bubbling fears. What was supposed to be a simple mission, only a month long, had become a study into a string of various attacks over thirty miles, keeping the Decepticon away from home almost three whole months.

Complaining would be treasonous, but to himself alone, the blue mech did just that. It wasn't just the length of time away that he was angered over, he was also worried about his estate, his staff and most importantly, Tracks. What would become of everyone he ever cared for and sheltered should the country erupt into war? Soundwave felt himself sicken with fear all over again.

He'd visited at least four towns and a few smaller, less known country villages, and each had been greatly devastated by attacks. Soldiers gossiped and questioned fearfully about the force that was capable of such brutality, as they handled the dead into a number of huge pits, while relaying documented losses in stock. As before, Soundwave had lied about the Autobots' involvement, but he was avidly aware that the mechs did not believe him.

What could he say though? If the Emperor did not wish to enlighten his people on the potential threat, one that he did not believe existed himself, then what position did the councilor have to inform the soldiers otherwise? That was a sure way to have oneself executed and given Soundwave's current situation, that was an end he didn't wish to meet just yet.

Sighing, the Decepticon once again crumpled up his parchment, tossing it to the floor of the carriage alongside his other failed attempts from earlier. Peering out the window again, Soundwave was glad to see that the evening traffic was not heavy that orn. It meant that they'd be reaching the winding mountain path up to his villa shortly, and home meant he could rest for a few cycles, before he would have to deal with anything else. Leaning back in his seat, the blue mech just enjoyed the rocking of the carriage as it finished the last of the distance home, tuning out the incessant babble of a city's never-ending stream of thoughts and offlining his optics in a moment of relaxation.

When the carriage finally drew to a stop, it was a jolt to the councilor, but he fought off his exhaustion long enough to stand up and climb down; allowing the servants to take care of his bags and the mess inside the cab as he headed inside. Waving off the gaggle of slaves and attendants that waited within, Soundwave requested a messenger be brought to him immediately, and he stayed by the door only long enough for a slave to go and fetch one. As soon as the messenger arrived, the telepath scanned his thoughts and imparted him with a notice that he would visit the Emperor first thing the next orn, once he'd had time to compile together his findings from the Warlord's mission. Sending the messenger off, the Decepticon headed straight for his room, brushing away each servant or slave that approached him.

By the time he reached his quarters, he was thoroughly drained; emotionally, physically and mentally. Deciding he didn't want to be involved in anything more for the night, especially not putting together Megatron's large, civilian death toll, Soundwave believed the best course of action was to simply recharge. A bath, food and even thought, could all wait until the morning after.

Maybe then, the councilor's worries will have categorized themselves into tiny, avoidable little cubbies that he could push back into the recesses of his processor and ignore for however long as was necessary.

**xxXxXxx**

Tracks was just returning to his room when he heard the other servants muttering about Soundwave's homecoming. They tittered nervously, completely missing the Autobot as he passed, and that caused the mech to slow in his stride.

"...He's not right..."

"...Master seems upset..."

"Just what...?"

It didn't take long for one of the servants to see the slave standing there, listening, and with a flurry of servos he shooed his companions away and hurried along to whatever duties still remained for him. Tracks didn't even scowl as the others scattered, too wrapped up in processing what had just been said. Soundwave was... upset? And no one knew why?

Silently, the slave continued his path to his room, leaning back against the door once he was inside. It was dusk outside his window, tinging the garden with warm, orange light and elongating the shadows growing in his room. Tracks paid them no mind though, lost in a soundless debate. Gathering courage, he approached the armoire, opening its doors and pushing aside his dull, brown tunics, to open the bottom beneath. Inside, sat the sheer, gossamer gown that he had donned decaycles ago in a mean prank; now, being gently drawn out, with the intent to use it as intended.

Setting the robe in a basket, Tracks then approached his vanity and browsed through the numerous bottles sitting on its top. It had taken him the rest of the month, but he'd managed to smuggle various oils and waxes from the bath hall, collecting them in his room for a time such as this. He selected three now, familiar ones from his past, and put them in the basket as well. Next, he grabbed a few pieces of jewelry to decorate his wings and wrists with, packing them up also, before the Autobot grabbed his basket and quickly headed for the bath hall.

It was dark when he entered, showing that Soundwave had not even come in for an evening bath. Whatever troubled the councilor was severe... and that caused a sliver of worry to worm into Tracks' fuel tanks. Not wanting to waste time, the slave moved with purpose, drawing a hot bath and setting out his soaps and oils. He washed, from helm to pede, taking his time to get into all the nooks and seams; scrubbing out scuff marks, smoothing over dings and applying a healthy, shining coat of wax bottom to top afterwards. It was dark by the time he was finished, but Tracks didn't mind. He let the bath drain, lit a candle and dressed in the dim lighting.

The Autobot even applied a little powder to his cheekplates and gloss to his lip components, double-checking his reflection in the hall mirror, before he exited out of the bath area. There was a squirm of anxiety within him, for the moment Tracks left the room, he was vividly aware that he was naked for all to see -robe or not. Yet, the winged mech steeled himself as he walked, chin lifted high and wings flared proudly, knowing that he was beautiful and using that knowledge as strength.

A servant was coming back down the hall as the slave strode around the corner, carrying a tray and looking positively dismal. No doubt Soundwave had turned down his dinner. Tracks decided to stop her in her path, taking the tray from the shocked femme's servo and continuing his strut up the hall. He didn't even look back to see if the servant was still staring with her flared and scandalized optics. Coming to a stop outside the Decepticon's room, the winged mech knocked lightly, hearing a weary vent within.

"Status: Not hungry," came Soundwave's vocalizer, "Request: Please leave."

Tracks grasped the knob and pushed the door open, balancing the tray with one servo. "If you don't eat, you will only do more harm to yourself," he said, watching as the councilor jumped before his mirror; scrambling to straighten the mask he'd been in the process of removing and whirling around.

The red visor flared brightly for a moment as Soundwave finally saw what Tracks was wearing -well, lack of- and he hastened into a corner in his room, staring adamantly at the wall. "T-tracks: W-what are you...?!," he stuttered, still trying to deal with the scare of the other's entrance and his rising lust, "Query: Why-?!

"I heard you returned... From the others' gossip. They said you weren't yourself," Tracks interrupted, closing the door and walking over casually. He set the tray down on the desk and turned to Soundwave, scowling now, as the blue mech continued to stare into the corner. "You also skipped dinner. I thought you might like cheering up."

The Decepticon's shoulders actually sagged and a sorrowful vent escaped him loudly. Without facing the slave, he waved a servo behind him weakly, mumbling, "Status: Not... don't want this, no... Plea: return to quarters. Tracks: Not required to do anything, especially not-"

Soundwave cut himself off as he felt warm fingers cup his servo, tenderly moving up his forearm, before that same warmth spread across his entire back; two, small servos looping under his arms and pressing softly against the front of his chestplates. "...And what if I said I was doing this of my own freewill, not some sort of idiotic obligation?," Tracks replied quietly.

Turning slowly, the councilor looked at the slave, feeling his lust flare into a raging inferno. Tracks was always so beautiful but under the candlelight, and freshly waxed too, he looked like a radiant mirage come to fulfill a romantic's most deepest wish. Heat beginning to escape his seams, Soundwave faced the winged mech fully, pulling him against his frame in a tight hug.

Tracks tried not to wriggle in the other's grasp, caught off-guard by the sudden action. It was hard though; reminded of every single pair of greasy servos that had viciously tore into him before, how could he ever have thought that he'd be able to let someone frag him? Just when his intakes began to cycle faster, the slave was suddenly being pushed a safe distance back, his optics shuttering in surprise.

"W-wha...?," he gaped, staring up at the taller mech.

The red visor was dim, dimmer than Tracks had ever seen, and even Soundwave's entire frame hunched in some silent suffering. "Tracks: Not... not just an object or a toy or a frag," the councilor said softly, "Status: Will not -can not- treat you as such. Mean too much to me."

A sort of sadness took over Tracks at the words and he didn't know what to do as the Decepticon turned to his armoire and pulled out a cloak. He was just draping it over the Autobot's shoulders and turning him to the door when something finally snapped in the slave. He whirled around, shoving the unsuspecting councilor onto the berth before climbing on top, both servos grasping the other mech's helm.

"This is my choice," he said sharply, staring Soundwave down. "You give me so much freedom, are you really going to deny me a choice in _this_ of all things? I'm not doing this to test you, I'm not doing it because I want to be a whore; I'm doing this for my own reasons and I want you to decide only whether or not you want to do this too!"

After everything that had happened -the long journey, the horrible probabilities of upcoming war- the Decepticon was speechless. Every inch of him was torn: he wanted to respect Tracks, he wanted to shelter him and protect him, yet he wanted to roll the Autobot beneath him, take him again and again, and bind them together, spark and all. More than anything he wanted this nerve-wracking nightmare to come to an end and put to rest all of his fears of losing a love he never had the right to claim to start with. Looking up at the slave, hearing the impatient, "Well?," come from a mouth that was scowling at him in annoyance, but sensing the cool laps of worry resonating from an unusually calm processor, Soundwave could only think of one response.

Raising a servo, he allowed golden fingers to cup one of the powdered cheekplates, venting gently at having finally been given this chance. "Tracks: In control," he informed, slowly sitting up, his gaze never leaving the suddenly shy mech, "Fact: You stop, I stop. No excuses."

Blue optics flared like faraway stars at the statement, before Soundwave carefully rolled the Autobot beneath him; slowly undoing his clips and sash, giving the slave plenty of time to change his mind as he undressed. Yet Tracks never said anything and instead watched with rapt attention, trying to keep cruel demons at bay. The councilor felt this and his actions slowed for a moment, before he continued at his casual pace, being sure to constantly stroke cheeks and fingers in innocent adoration.

"Inquiry: Is this permissible?," he asked, once the last of his clothing had been shed.

Tracks quietly nodded.

"Query: May I do this?," the Decepticon questioned as his servos caressed down shoulders and forearms.

The slave's response was to spread his legs, allowing and inviting for the blue mech to come in closer.

Soundwave waited, slowly and tenderly mapping out the Autobot's frame with his servos, giving Tracks all the time in the world to adjust, as well as granting the telepath his own gift of seeing the mech in all his splendor. Not once did the winged mech take his optics off of the councilor, but Soundwave could both hear, as well as feel, when Tracks' intakes began to heavy with a slow-budding charge and his processor chase away the grasping claws of his torturous memories. The claws still remained, of course, but they were at bay -controlled by the slave's very own will and his ever vigil gaze, that reminded him firmly of just exactly whom was touching him now.

Smiling beneath his battle mask, the Decepticon wanted to comment on the smaller mech's bravery; yet, restrained, knowing that it could easily undo everything and send Tracks back into a hellish nightmare. Instead, he continued his requests and confirmations of permission, merely stroking and petting gleaming plating until there was a click from between them. Stiffening slightly in alarm, Soundwave paused in his stroke up a calf, glancing down. True to his assumption, Tracks' codpiece had been retracted and his scarred, but supple valve sat on proud display for him, beaded heavily with lubricant.

Flames of lust flared again and the councilor only saw his hunger, which he quickly reigned in, not wanting to hurt the slave. Squeezing the calf he held lightly, Soundwave straightened up in his seat, fighting back his own set of nerves as he revealed himself as well. The clack of his codpiece drawing back was like a slamming door in the silence between the two mechs, and Tracks jolted in alarm, allowing his gaze to drop from Soundwave's face to study his spike. Embarrassingly, it was already pressurized; slick with a generous layer of pre-fluids, swollen in want and need, and biolights burning brightly along the piping up the sides. Hitting cold air after so long, the only thing the Decepticon wanted to do was bury it hilt-deep into the waiting valve, but he paused as he felt fear grow rapidly within Tracks.

"Reminder," he called softly, petting the calf comfortingly, "Can stop at any time. Tracks: is in control and will be obeyed as wished."

The telepath felt the struggle within the slave's mind, saw the terrified optics flash upwards and connect with his visor, but after a few kliks Tracks managed to subdue the worst of his anxiety and with a shy, slightly uncertain nod, gestured for Soundwave to continue.

Cycling a shaky intake in excitement and nervousness, the councilor shuffled closer, lowering himself onto the smaller Autobot.

It was weird. No, that wasn't quite the right term... It was more like, terrifying. Tracks kept his optics on Soundwave as he loomed in, feeling those haunting thoughts fight to claw their way to the forefront of his processor, but he beat them back, refusing to be a victim to them as well. His fuel tanks still churned and his spark was pulsing two-beats too quick, yet he didn't stop the Decepticon when he pressed softly against the outer folds of his valve, nor was he afraid that he couldn't stop this if he wanted to. This sudden swell of courage was baffling; there was no reason that he should possess it, but, Tracks was filled with a great certainty that his word was law in this berth and so he let the moment keep playing out, intent on pushing himself to his limits.

He didn't care for the act of fragging itself but...

But there was a need to see what this budding connection to the councilor was. To hold it under various lights and discover what it meant and what place it had in his life. Shaking servos grasped at the councilor's thick shoulders, holding onto them like an anchor as the bigger mech slowly gyrated just at the lip of the Autobot's valve; allowing Tracks to adjust, little by little, instead of slamming right in as was expected.

Tracks could only shiver below Soundwave, amazed and mind-boggled at how considerate and attentive the Decepticon was being even now, and how good all of this was beginning to feel. It didn't take too long for his inner thighs to get slicker as more lubricants were produced, the slave gasping in marvel as the councilor suddenly slid inside a few inches, yet he held himself steady to keep from piercing the Autobot harmfully. He'd been so worried that all of this would hurt, given his last few unfortunate sexual experiences and the alarming girth of his slave master, but Soundwave remained working at a slow pace until Tracks had fully relaxed, unaware that he had taken the entire spike in.

Only when the Decepticon jerkily began to increase his pace, breaking out into an unbidden, fast tempo, that the slave noticed he was stretched pleasantly wide -only for it come to a sudden stop as Soundwave grunted out a jumbled version of the winged mech's name, fluid gushing into Tracks' valve as the councilor nearly collapsed on top of him.

Shuttering his optics for a klik, it took the blue mech pulling up and out for Tracks to realize that he was already finished... and they'd barely even started! "W-wha...?," he stammered, still trying to process what had just occurred.

The councilor sat on the edge of the berth, hunched over and rubbing the back of his neck in shame. "Apologies: performance... inadequate," Soundwave confessed, tone rich with embarrassment. "Status: have n-not... didn't..." He cleared his vocalizer and turned his helm to Tracks slowly pushing himself up. "Fact: H-have never connected p-previously. Been saving it for that special 'bot."

Tracks visibly flinched, as if he had been slapped, and the Decepticon cringed anxiously in response as he felt a darkness take over the slave's thoughts. He was just reaching out a servo for the shaking mech, when Tracks scrambled off the berth quickly, weakly excusing himself and running from the room in less than a klik. Soundwave rose to give chase but his strength escaped him before he'd even taken a step forward. Crumpling back onto the berth, the councilor slapped a servo to his face as he hunched over again, eaten up by self-loathing and fighting back tears.

**C.M.D: Admittedly, I am evil.**   
**Be kind; give me your mind~ REVIEW, please?**


	16. Chapter 16

**C.M.D: It's been a while since I've uploaded last (feels like months honestly) but I'm not getting any less busier. So, I'm super glad that I have at least gotten a few chapters done this month for your reading pleasure. With any luck, I may have an update or two for next month as well. Anyways, I won't drone on anymore -please enjoy!**

To say that the night had been a restless one would have been an understatement. Exhausted, optics hazed with a fog from the never-ending tears he had silently wept and chestplates taut from the relentless aching of his spark, Soundwave was loathe to rise at all when dawn swiped its first colourful brush line across the horizon. Yet he knew he had to and that was the only motivation lifting his hunkered frame upright.

No doubt word had spread the previous night from Tracks' visit -the servants this morning had knocked, politely, quietly announced their bringing of breakfast and had left it at the door without once stepping inside. Perhaps they assumed the Autobot was still in their master's berth this morning, and he along with him.

In other circumstances, that would be the case. But that's not what had unfolded several cycles ago and Soundwave was barely glad he was saved the embarrassment of the staff discovering such. They'd find out everything in time, there was no illusions to think otherwise, having them ignorant for now though merely was a blessing. Washing his face, Soundwave donned his mask and visor once more, trying to sweep away any signs of his breaking spark as he dressed for the palace. There'd be no favors gained if he faced the court with holes in his guard; certainly, the Emperor would not take kindly to a sniveling, lovesick fool when he had other matters to attend to.

Once he was finally dressed, the telepath gathered the few of his documents made during his travels, tucked them in a satchel under his cloak, then exited the room. The halls were bright and warm and so wonderfully empty at this hour -a nuisance upon the optics and on the processor. Taking care to skirt around Tracks' door, Soundwave forced himself to think of other things, such as the report he never finished for Lord Megatron. Or the garden! It needed more fertilizer and special seeds for planting season next spring. Oh, and there was the annual household inventory to go over before the winter came...

Distracted, for once, the Decepticon was quick to anger when whispering vocalizers pulled him from his reprieve and back to a sore reality. Searching for the source of the sound, Soundwave stepped off track, heading down a smaller, narrower hallway, meant for servants and slaves to use to travel between main areas of the estate. The talking had hushed to almost complete silence as he neared a fork, and peering down it angrily, the blue mech found himself in quite a shock.

For there stood Arcee, waving longingly at the last of Springer, before he too turned the bend, her back to Soundwave and completely unaware of her Master's presence. When she turned, slowly and giddy, that is when the telepath noticed the rose she pressed tenderly to her chestplates. He did not need to read her mind that moment to know what thoughts she had; what her spark was thrumming out so loudly for any one to hear... It was all written so clearly in the tiny, love-struck smile upon her face. A smile that quickly crashed when her optics lifted at the sight of Soundwave's shadow, gazing jumping up to the Decepticon just as rapidly as her fear did.

"M-master...!," she choked, words freezing in her vocalizer, unable to offer an excuse.

Soundwave could feel all his anger flee and once more he was filled with a deep sorrow. One of his slaves had found love, where he could not, yet even then it was not permissible. Such relations among property were... criminal... "Order: See me in the study once I have returned," he commanded with a heavy spark. "Status: Must talk."

Shivering now in terror, the femme struggled to hold onto bravery; suffocating the rose in a clutching grasp and nodding quickly so as to distract from the tears filling her optics. "Y-yes," she was close to weeping, "Y-yes Master."

There was no time to spare on pointless sympathies. Venting wearily, his entire frame shrinking under the burden of his duties, Soundwave turned away from the slave and quickly headed back out to the main halls; into a carriage and on his way to a reluctant meeting with the Emperor.

**xxXxXxx**

"USELESS!"

At the scream, everyone leaned away from the table; Megatron's goblet bouncing across the marble before hitting the farthest wall, shattering into a million, tiny pieces. High-grade slowly spread across the table, almost soaking precious documents before Soundwave swooped in and quickly collected them in his arms. Unhindered, the softly glowing liquid continued to spread, no servants or slaves to take care of it whilst all were seated in the Emperor's private war chamber.

"My Lord," Blitzwing spoke up, hesitantly reclaiming his seat. No one else dared to do the same as of yet, uncertain of what the affect the censor's words would have on the silver mech. "These are only slaves that we-"

" _Only slaves?_ ," Megatron roared, slamming the table with his clenched fist. There was a harrowing crack heard deep in the stone, so loud that Blitzwing flinched visibly, taking a cowardly step back. "They steal from my land and resources and you dare call them mere slaves?! Allow me to remind you that with no stock or trade, I have very little need of someone to oversee my Empire's finances, which means your  _usefulness_  to me is also forfeit."

"Now sit!," the larger Decepticon barked, having lost his patience entirely.

Everyone reclaimed their places at the round table with a hurry, but none so quicker than Blitzwing, as the Emperor himself slowly leaned back in his seat. Shockwave as ever stood by his side, getting a new goblet for his superior and pouring him another glass of high-grade. Not far from his left, Starscream sat, unable to stop the taunting smirk spreading across his lip components. "You truly have no sense of leadership," he ribbed, optics glowing with cruel glee. "Scaring the poor tax collector -what does that do besides drive him further batty?"

Megatron took the proffered cup from Shockwave, drinking as he glared at the winged mech from the side. "You," he growled lowly, "Have much to be humble about, Starscream. It's your incompetency that results in these foolish slaves."

The commander straightened up in his seat in a flash, wings stiff with ire and optics narrowed into slits. "My fault?!," he screeched, pretty face contorting in his rage, "How in the slag is it  _my_  fault that you can't rule your fragging empire!?"

Like a rattlesnake strike, the Warlord reached across the table, grabbing the magenta mech by a wing; fingers slowly crunching it under his mighty paw as Starscream gasped and writhed in hateful agony. "You are supposed to be my commander; leader of my army," he said casually, unphased by the claws scratching deep marks in his forearm, "I had thought that you'd be able to fill the role during such peaceful times, but apparently even cleaning up after scum is too much responsibility for you."

With a heavy twist of his servo, Megatron sent Starscream tumbling back into his seat, ignoring the screech that followed as he turned back to the rest of his subjects. As one, they all looked towards their Emperor, waiting to know what he'd have them do next. "Soundwave," Megatron began, scowl firmly in place once more, "Continue with your reports."

At the snap of the black fingers, the councilor hurried to wipe the wine up with a sleeve, before spreading out the scrolls he'd brought with him. "Status: As was saying, my liege," Soundwave continued, as if there had been no interruption before, "Rogue activity is up by thirty-five percentile. Fringe settlements: current exploitation and targets. Suspects: Few remaining free Autobots. Reasoning: Slave towns heaviest hit. Casualties high with exception of Autobot slaves."

"And they've been amassing a larger following with every freed slave," Starscream piped up, eyeing Megatron cautiously as he spoke. Fear though did not ebb the scathing heat from his words. "It's amazing how senseless you can be,  _Oh Glorious Leader_. I said we should eradicate the Autobots entirely when you won the war! It was too much of a liability to keep them alive; a mass, public execution serves better purposes than war prisoners. But no! You didn't listen, you-"

The commander cut himself off sharply when a servo raised in his direction, but instead of striking the winged mech a second time, the Warlord merely held out his servo for the pen Shockwave handed him. "Enough, Soundwave," he intoned, drinking from his goblet once more, then resting it to the side, "You've already gone over those details. What I'm most curious to hear is your take on response... What shall we do to these rogues?"

Soundwave hesitated to answer, feeling an intense pressure upon his shoulders as he was put on the spot. The entire council was looking at him, their minds filled with scathing remarks and cruel betrayals that were not as silent as they believed. "Fact: They are attacking precious farming and trade towns now... and the harvest approaches. Conclusion: Suggest sending out more troops to physically guard the fringe territories, protect farmers and traders alike and-"

"Send more of my soldiers out to the border towns?," Starscream gaped indignantly. "Are you daft?! These 'rogues' as you call them are mere scum! I refuse to send my elite out to guard backwater shacks and huts because some country-born soldiers are incapable of keeping a few slaves in line. Let them die if so!"

"Protest: Is not a mere few," the councilor retorted, tone a little sharper with his ire. The winged mech always had something to say in opposition but he was being extra obtuse today. Soundwave did not have the patience to listen to it. "Repeat: A documented two hundred slaves are missing. Beginning Autobot count before the attacks is unknown."

"All the same, Soundwave," Megatron interjected, cutting off Starscream's shrieking tirade before it could start, "The commander is right. My soldiers serve the Empire better, closer to home, until such a time that a true threat or mission awaits them. Sending them out to play nursemaid to poor villages and towns is pointless."

"...What shall you have us do, my liege?," Blitzwing uncertainly questioned.

Leaning forward with imposing grace, Megatron took the pen Shockwave had given him earlier, and cut a black line across the map. As one, everyone leaned forward too, trying to see what the Emperor had done. "These pesky mosquitoes require adequate supplies, which they pillage from my empire's furthest towns and communes," the silver mech calmly explained, sitting back comfortably in his throne, "Thus, we shall remove those resources from them. Blitzwing, send notice to Strika that she is to make a declaration to everyone north of this line. Starting from today, the people of the fringe territories are to abandon their farms and homes and move to any of the available regions closer to the empire. Those that do shall be rewarding with coin -select an appropriate sum, censor- and those that don't are at the mercy of the vagabonds."

"But," Blitzwing mumbled shockingly, "T-that is... that is at least a hundred or so villages, my liege! Taxpayers of almost several hundred more!"

"Query: The harvest is not yet here, Emperor. What of their stock?," Soundwave asked, equally as alarmed.

"Unimportant," Megatron answered carelessly. He reached for his goblet again, and Shockwave refilled it.

"Those lands never contributed much to the Empire's resources," the assassin added. "They shall mean very little to us once removed, but to our so called 'freedom fighters', the act will be decimating. We have richer farm lands in these regions across the line. And better fortitude as well, given that many of the Empire's training camps are held in these same areas."

Pulling his goblet away from his mouth after a hearty drink, the Warlord turned his helm to the commander, lounging easily in his seat while favouring his injured wing. "You, Starscream, are to head for the troops' barracks and relay my command."

"Me?," Starscream scowled, straightening up in his chair, "Why must I go?! Send Lugnut to do such menial errands!"

"You will go," Megatron growled, quickly losing his good mood once more, "Because you are my commander and such insubordination will result in the removal of your position and title! Besides, I know you Starscream -you will dismiss the rest of your duties once you have given the initial declaration, thus I'm making this easier upon you. Inform the soldiers of the changes made, select your finest, and send them as instructors to the training camps. Another group shall be assisting Blitzwing with rewarding the fringe settlers of their due pay and a third will be traveling with Strika. Leaving you with plenty of time to visit the training camps in between your usual slacking off."

Ignoring the magenta-face, shaking, indignant Decepticon, the Emperor turned to the rest of his present council; a casual smirk playing at the one edge of his mouth. "Now that everything is settled, are there any more questions?"

"Might I offer an additional suggestion, my liege?," Shockwave spoke up then, stepping forward so he might be more in line of Megatron's sight.

"Oh?," the silver mech asked, glancing at his assassin. "And what did you have to offer, Shockwave?"

"Your plan is sure to be successful, Emperor, but I fear that it may not be enough to cull these bandits. Certainly, having no more access to food and resources will lead to their eventual eradication, yet it is a probability that they may have already tainted our other valuable resource," the purple cyclops explained.

"What resource is that, one-optic?," Starscream scathingly asked.

"Slaves, obviously," Shockwave replied, glancing at the commander with his fore-mentioned one, unblinking optic. "Slaves have proved such usefulness as a wonderful labor force and home maintenance -even in other uses, like pleasure. But fringe settlements are home to many slave owners, more of which have not sold their stock yet."

"Meaning they are liabilities...," Megatron mumbled softly, following the other mech's line of thought.

"Yes, my liege," the assassin said, bowing slightly. "I would suggest, to ensure that no rogue-sympathizer gets to your core city, an additional decree be made. All slaves -unpurchased and untrained- be put to death immediately. We'll cut away all traitorous thoughts in one orn, my Emperor, and still retain our valuable asset."

"Are you mad?," Blitzwing shouted, pausing in his note-taking. He looked from Shockwave to Megatron in angry disbelief, lowering his gaze so as not to stare into his Emperor's optics. "My lord," he begged, "See reason! If you slaughter those slaves without master or with too much will, then the people shall revolt! It'll be pandemonium in the very streets!"

"Don't be so dramatic," the Warlord vented irritably, waving a servo at the censor. "Include a small reward as well for our ever-diligent traders. But, as always Shockwave, you prove to be the most esteemed informant of my council. You, too, shall have to be rewarded."

"At your side is reward enough, my liege," Shockwave said, bowing.

Starscream gagged silently off to the side and even Blitzwing made a face before finishing the last of his notes. With nothing else to do, Soundwave began rolling up the scrolls, sensing already from Megatron's processor that the meeting had come to a close. And unsurprisingly, the Emperor rose to his pedes not but an astrosecond after, heading out the door with a last "See me when you have finished preparing the declarations, Blitzwing", before disappearing entirely.

It took not even a klik before Starscream was gone too.

"This will pinch the empire's taxes," the censor grumbled, rising to his pedes. He glanced at the councilor, silently watching him, and quickly corrected himself. "Not to say that the Emperor is wrong in his decisions -they are indeed exemplary and well-thought out! But taxes must be changed for this year, enough so that people do not feel its pinch and to keep those losing more from demanding retribution."

"Fact: Shall keep them well in line, as the Emperor expects," Soundwave said, partially assuring, as he handed Blitzwing the scrolls.

"But of course," the tan mech replied, reluctantly agreeable. He took the councilor's reports and maps without a thank you, his thoughts loud and irritated as he left the room.

In any other situation, Soundwave would take note of everything echoing in the censor's processor, but today was not a good orn for subterfuge of a fellow colleague. It had taken all of his energy to keep up a front through this long hearing as it was -and now, knowing of the actions Megatron would take against the Autobot uprising? The councilor seated himself for a moment, unable to stand as vertigo hit him. First Tracks, now Arcee and the declaration to kill all unclaimed slaves. This seemed like such madness! And the telepath could foresee greater consequences coming out of it.

If the Emperor heard about Tracks' lack of cooperation and Soundwave's leniency... Would he demand the Autobot be relinquished to the Empire's new death sentence?

Trembling, fighting back nausea, the councilor rose to his pedes once again, hurrying home.

**xxXxXxx**

Evening was approaching as Springer made his way down the hall. He marched in perfect pace, taking care to analyze every corner and entryway as he passed. Stellar cycles of training had taught him to be on the lookout for any signs of danger and he'd kept to the vow of a guard despite his owner's allegiance. In fact, if it wasn't for Soundwave, the Autobot would have never known the Decepticons to be anything but monsters. All that he'd learned under the councilor's possession had changed the way Springer perceived things.

Which was why, marching down the darkening halls now, the guard was not afraid or at all suspicious as to why his master would summon him so late in the orn. Perhaps it was in regards to the new roster and rounds, Springer thought silently, as he turned the corner to the councilor's office. That wouldn't be too surprising... Soundwave liked to rotate guard positions every change of season, to allow his staff a chance to rest or learn new skills. It was very gracious of him to think of slaves and servants so well; it was also one of the many reasons Springer was loyal to the Decepticon.

Coming up to the councilor's office, the guard silenced all his curious thoughts, knocking on the door with a sure fist. "Master Soundwave," Springer called out evenly, "It is I, Springer. You summoned for me, my lord?"

Soundwave replied from the other side with a "Acknowledged. Order: Enter," to which the slave pushed into the office, still holding onto the side of the door to close it behind him.

"How may I be of-," the Autobot stopped himself mid-salute, the door swinging firmly shut as he noticed that they were not alone in the office. Standing before Soundwave already, helm downcast and shaking, was Arcee. She did not even glance up the moment Springer had entered, but a terrified sob did escape her at the sound of his vocalizer.

Tightening his stance, Springer looked from the femme to Soundwave and back again; finishing his salute stiffly and holding his arms rigid down by his sides. The councilor was staring back at him in masked silence, servos folded under his chin, causing a knot of worry to form now in the guard's tanks. "...What seems to be the problem, Master?," he asked mechanically.

Soundwave was quiet for nearly a klik, turning his helm minutely to each of them, one at a time, before he lowered his servos and grabbed the scroll from his desk. "Status: Has come to my attention that you have been fraternizing intimately with each other," the blue mech began, pen already moving over the white surface. "Fact: Is illegal, as decreed by his Emperor's great law. As you are both aware of."

Arcee was shaking harder now, though she kept all sounds contained, and Springer couldn't help the step he took forward. "Master, please," he begged, dropping to one knee without hesitation. He grit his denta as he forced the words out, tanks now roiling sickeningly. "Miss Arcee has nothing to do with this. It was an error on my part and every meeting was facilitated by me. The punishment is mine to bear alone; spare her from the consequences of my crimes."

"N-no!," Arcee shouted, finally lifting her helm. She took a step towards Springer but the red visor of her master's gaze culled her into submission. With optics overflowing, she buried her face in her servos and wept.

"Springer," Soundwave started neutrally, "Stand."

The green mech wanted to do anything but. Yet, an order was an order, and he would kiss the Decepticon's very pedes to keep the femme from suffering through the empire's "training regime" for slaves or the horrors of being resold. The stories he'd heard were nightmarish enough. Rising to his pedes reluctantly, Springer looked straight into his master's face, hoping that the councilor would see the strength of his conviction in his optics.

Even if he didn't have the tight-lipped look of certainty and the coolant-slicked optics of desperation, Soundwave could hear as loud as Starscream's shrieking the love Springer carried in his spark for Arcee. It was a strong flame, so bright, that it led the guard to even sacrificing himself at the executioner's slab and all for the sake of the femme. It was both beautiful and spark-breaking at the same time. Venting softly, the Decepticon turned to his scroll, making another note across the papyrus.

"Inquiry: How long?," he asked.

Arcee still wept and would not answer. Springer hesitated, deliberating on whether to lie, but decided against it, knowing that it would make no difference towards the severity of his punishment. "It shall be two whole quartex in three more orns, my lord."

Soundwave jotted something down on his scroll, turning back to his desk just then. "Status: Have come to a decision," he declared, still writing. His pen was moving at a flurry now and Springer felt his jaw tighten; vastly aware of his demise rushing towards him.

"Status: Arcee and Springer have broken the law of their servitude and therefore have defied the Emperor's will," the councilor continued, rolling the scroll up into a tiny tube before sealing it in the middle with some wax. "Analysis: Are not fit to serve in the empire anymore."

"But-," Springer started sharply, concern turning to rage at the implications he took from the Decepticon's words.

"Conclusion," Soundwave interjected sharply, turning, holding the scroll out for Springer, "Have decided, you both are free to go."

Arcee's helm snapped up suddenly, her tear-streaked face slack in shock. "W-what...?"

"F...free?," Springer echoed in equal astonishment. "Y-you're... we're free...?"

Soundwave nodded, giving the servo holding the scroll a little shake to bring it the Autobot's attention again. Shuttering his optics dazedly, the guard hurried to take it, holding it in one servo with disbelief. Both of them were so flabbergasted, that when the blue mech began to speak again, they almost missed it.

"Springer: In charge of delivering the message to the court immediately. Arcee: Is to return to slave chambers for early night. Status: By tomorrow, metalsmith and officiant will come," Soundwave announced, leaning back in his chair wearily. "Plan: Shall have you freed and wed at the same moment, in the garden. Will be able to go where ever you wish after the fact."

An ecstatic grin was spreading across Springer's face then, every vile thought he'd just been breeding about the Decepticon quick to vanish, as he held the very symbol of his freedom in one shaking servo. He glanced at Arcee, tears filling the femme's optics as she became overwhelmed by the sudden news, and had to refrain from swooping her into his arms out of sheer joy! "T-thank you, sir!," the guard turned, saluting sloppily in his giddiness.

"Tha-thank you so much, Master!," Arcee chirped as well, sniffling as the tears came harder.

Soundwave nodded, waving a servo dismissively. Springer dashed out the door immediately; Arcee held back a second longer, curtseying deeply, before she jogged off to the slaves' quarters herself. All the joy and love that had filled the room chased off after each of them, leaving the councilor alone and surrounded by shadows in his processor. He was happy for them... he really was... but it did not curb the biting sting of envy that poisoned his spark, weighing it down into stone.

Snuffing the candle on his desk, the Decepticon exited out of the office, not even bothering to lock it as he headed wearily down the empty halls.


	17. Chapter 17

**C.M.D: I'm posting a day earlier because, well, I'll be a little busy the next couple days so I figured now was better than later. Anyways, please enjoy the influx of updates I have this night (mostly on Tooth and Claw but, meh) and I'll see you all next month~!**

Once more, dawn had risen, and again the councilor had not slept a wink throughout the night. How could he? His processor was a restless trap, filled with despairs and snapping vocalizers of some unknown presence, keeping his circuits humming non-stop even as they throbbed with exhaustion. Pulling away from his berth, Soundwave lazily washed his face and servos, before donning his mask and heading for the bath hall. Servants saw him approaching and they hurried to draw the Decepticon fresh, hot water; pulling out robes and towels and vials of oils and waxes. As much as he wished to brush them off, Soundwave knew he needed to be clean for this morning and seeing as he did not have the care to do so himself, he allowed the staff to start on scrubbing his dusty plating. It seemed to take forever, but eventually, the servants finished bathing their master. Just in time for another slave to hurry through the doors.

"Master," he cycled quickly, bowing so deeply his face almost touched his knee joints. "There is a Judge and metalsmith to see you."

"Acknowledged," Soundwave responded, rising from the tub. Immediately, a couple of servants moved forward to cover and pat down the telepath's wet frame. "Order: Escort our guests to the gazebo in the garden. Provide food and drink for their arrival."

As the slave turned to leave to his duties, the councilor pointed to one of the servants not preoccupied at the moment, gesturing for them to come closer. The femme did so and Soundwave was quick to give out his second round of orders. "Command: Shall collect the seamstress and have her meet me in the work station immediately. Once finished, summon miss Arcee to join us."

"As you command, milord," the femme replied, bowing before she too left the room. Soundwave said nothing more as the other servants finished waxing and dressing him; setting to work draining the tub and putting away the vials as the Decepticon pinned his sash to his robes.

"Status: Not to tidy up just yet," he informed them, being met with a round of surprised faces. "Shall draw another bath and tend to the guard Springer. Fact: Expect him to be shining when finished and dressed in fine robes."

There came a silent buzz, as the servants minds started chattering all at once, but Soundwave ignored it as he did many things. He waited and stood by until they'd overcome their shock enough to echo a round of "Yes, Master," before he himself left. Now though, the councilor found himself standing outside of the bath hall, feeling directionless and weary. He had to go see the seamstress and then his guests. He knew that. Yet he couldn't bring his pedes to move and after a klik, the blue mech realized he was staring back down the hall he'd first come from; optics focused in on the door that led to Tracks' room.

No, Soundwave thought, feeling hesitant. Going there would be stupid. Suicidal, if anything! Tracks had fled him, again, so why should he punish himself by visiting the Autobot?

But, a little vocalizer niggled, the telepath also hadn't seen or heard anything from the slave in two orns now. Was Tracks even alive still?

The tiniest flicker of concern was enough to coerce Soundwave into motion, heading back up his private halls and towards the Autobot's own quarters. Food sat at the door step, still steaming a little, showing that its delivery to the recipient hadn't been completely successful. Visor dimming, the councilor knocked on the door, not surprised when he received no response. Venting, Soundwave waited about a klik more, before he decided to just enter, finding himself in the center of chaos.

"Query: Wha...?," he mumbled, looking around the room in alarm. Sheets, clothing, pillows... They'd been thrown around the room, slashed and ripped, leaving their insides to spill out where they'd been tossed and trailing strips of brightly, mutilated colours in a tangled web one would be easy to trip over. Chests had also been overturned, jewelry yanked from its cases and broken into disjointed segments, leaving beads and gemstones to roll around in the mess as if they were sparkling beetles out to make a nest in rainbow sands.

Feeling weakness weigh heavier in his joints, Soundwave slowly roved his gaze over the mess, tracing over the mutilated berth to a pair of white wings barely visible over the side. "Inquiry: Tracks?," the councilor called out hesitantly. He shut the door behind himself quietly; it had been a while since he'd ever seen this room in this sort of disrepair, and he didn't need the other staff overhearing if the slave had regressed back to his previous state. "Fact: It is Soundwave."

The telepath tried to probe into the dark space where Tracks hid, but he sensed nothing and it sent an chill of unease down his spinal struts. He was only minutely grateful when he saw those wings flinch at his vocalizer a klik after, the sound of movement echoing from the other side. "...I know it's you," Tracks' vocalizer mumbled, low and hoarse. "Get out."

Soundwave wanted to do nothing else, yet he refrained for the moment. He had to talk to Tracks. Had to make this better before the Autobot returned to madness once more. They'd been so close last time... "Query: Why are you hiding and refusing food?," he asked, keeping his tone even, "Inquiry: Are you needing medical attention?"

"I said GET OUT!," Tracks shouted, lifting himself into sight, naked and scratched. Soundwave could only stare on in horror. What monster had plaqued the slave so much that he'd harm himself? "Stop standing there like a mute idiot! Leave! Get out of here! I don't want to see you again!"

Lifting his gaze, the Decepticon stared at that beautiful, contorted face as it screamed profanities and curses at him; blue optics flickering as a dark veil engulfed Tracks' processor once more. Is this what the other mech had been reduced to? Were they really circling back to the beginning, all of Soundwave's efforts and Tracks' progression up until this point meaning nothing to the crazed slave? The councilor felt his fists tighten at his sides; sorrow, exhaustion, fear and concern melting away to one emotion: Anger.

"Get out! Get out now before I-"

" _No_ ," Soundwave intoned, cutting off Tracks' ranting.

The slave shuttered his optics in shock, falling silent for a moment as his processor reeled from the unexpected interruption. Rage bleeding once more into his expression, Tracks leaned across the mattress, fisting the edges of its tattered edges as he bared his denta at the Decepticon. "No?! No to you! I demand you leave-"

"Fact: Is my house," the telepath interjected again, vocalizer snapping as he let loose for once. "Tracks: Commands have no effect here!"

"Well, isn't that just great," the Autobot hissed back, a sneer contorting his beautiful face more. " _'Master'_ has finally dropped the farce and left the truth show! No one has power here but you!"

Soundwave glared, feeling his patience begin to slip the longer he looked back into that loathing face. Taking an imposing step forward, he hunched his shoulders high, pointing a rigid finger at the slave. "Tracks: Had anything and everything he desired! Status: It's _you_ who has decided to act like this! It was _you_ who decided to share my berth! Fact: I refused!," he accused, visor flashing as his second fist tightened.

"Liar!," Tracks screamed back. He was beginning to look panicked and afraid, more than angry and disgusted, yet Soundwave couldn't care. The Autobot had pushed the blue mech this far without any remorse; Unicron be damned if the Decepticon continued to take it so submissively. "I-i never wanted that! I want my freedom! GIVE IT TO ME; SET ME FREE!"

The councilor froze for an astrosecond in astonishment before erupting entirely. "Status: Tried to set you free! Planned to have you released before your madness grew too great but you refused! Tracks: Was the one who decided he didn't want to be free! Tracks: Commanded I send the metalsmith away, choosing slavery over freedom!," Soundwave yelled back, feeling his vocalizer catch as grief bled into his rage. "Fact: It's your _own_ fault you're not free now!"

"T-that's... No... I-i, you...," the slave mumbled, lost and dazed. He was grasping at straws, his processor a fluctuating mess of emotions and memories, being corrupted before the telepath's very sensors. He couldn't care though. Tracks had abused him enough in his own ways and Soundwave could feel no sympathy or love towards this mech.

"Status: Your freedom is lost now," he continued, rage falling back into a quiet storm, twisting up inside his spark and making everything burn. Blue optics, welling with tears on a slacken face, turned up towards the councilor as he spoke. "Fact: Gave you so many chances... but now I've reached my limit, legally. Others shall be receiving their freedom as deserved. Intent: And come the new year... Tracks will also be released. Status: Am done."

"Permission: Can hole yourself up in here until you have your _slagging_ freedom," Soundwave spat at last, turning and storming from the room. The slamming door shook some of the tattered fabric loose from its hanging place, drifting down over top of the stunned Autobot as he stared wide-opticed into the empty space the telepath had just vacated. A vent escaping after kliks, Tracks collapsed to his knees, gazing into nothing in particular as his optics spilled coolant to the floor below.

**xxXxXxx**

"M-master, th-this is too much!"

When Soundwave had sent an escort for her, Arcee had been surprised that it was to bathe -in the Lord's own bath hall!- after her rich breakfast. Already so overwhelmed, the femme had allowed the other servants to aid her in her scrubbing, lavishing her with fragrant oils and soothing waxes after she'd been toweled off. Then there was the order that she was to head for the seamstress' shop immediately and Arcee's processor was in a whirl. To what purpose did she have to see the seamstress for? Indeed the only thing Soundwave had promised the night before was a metalsmith and judge to seal her right to freedom; yet neither such officials had been mentioned to arrive so far by the staff as they herded her about.

Now, in the seamstress' shop, Arcee was being told that the stunning silk gown before her was her own and that she had a matching veil for the wedding ceremony. It was too much! "M-master, n-no, I couldn't," the femme stuttered, turning to the telepath.

Despite the strange weariness that seemed to overtake the Decepticon, he waved off Arcee's stammers of protest; gently grasping her servo and pulling her close to the dress. "Bride: deserves a dress as splendid as her for such a precious moment. Suggestion: consider it a token of goodwill for the many stellar cycles of trust and loyalty you have given to me," Soundwave said, visor dimming gladly when Arcee began to weep in happiness.

These rare moments of utter joy were as precious to him, as they were to the ones who experienced them.

"Order: come," the councilor kindly urged, summoning a pair of servants forward, "Springer: will be along shortly to be dressed as well. Fact: we wouldn't want him to see his blushing bride just yet."

At the mention of the other mech, Arcee flushed deeply, hugging the gown as Soundwave put it in her arms. She mutely nodded her agreement to her Lord's statement, glossa silenced by the surreality of this orn so far. It was like a dream- a beautiful, magical dream that the slave hoped would never end. Finding her vocalizer quickly enough to spout her sparkfelt gratitude, Arcee hurried to another room with her escorts to get dressed, beaming brighter than the sun ever could.

**xxXxXxx**

"Suggestion: Head West. Mountains clear of bandits and fertile farmlands are not too far. Status: also void of slavers, last the Empire's reports dictated."

Springer finished saddling the horse, taking the bag Soundwave held out for him. It was still a wonder to process- his former master giving him advice, as if they were old friends, while helping out as the other prepared their mount for the long journey ahead. A horse, the guard might add, that was one of many gifts from the Decepticon this orn.

"Won't these protect us from slavers?," Springer asked, fingering the new collar around his neck.

In the Empire, only a Decepticon could fully shed the mark of ownership once freed, whilst an Autobot would forever bear some form of band. Thankfully, the guard's collar had been traded in from one of cold iron to a warm braid of gold -thin enough to hide or masquerade as mediocre jewelry- and a trio of marked gems imbedded into the weave. Each gem signified a different message: one showing the house he had belonged to during his slavery, a second to declare his bought freedom and a third announcing that enslaving him again, for anything but a crime against the Empire, would result in severe punishment to his captors. Was Springer not than protected by the Emperor's own law as a free mech?

Soundwave hesitated to answer, walking around the horse to buy time, helping the guard secure the sack to the saddle. "Autobot kin: not well respected in central cities. Fact: Most Autobots, Decepticon property."

That was true, Springer frowned, but he had a distinct feeling in his tanks that this was not the reason the Decepticon was encouraging them to head out into the wild territories, far from the Emperor's reach. It wasn't fear or doubt to make him question his former master once again, but concern. For himself, for Arcee and for every 'bot that inhabited the councilor's house. Soundwave included.

"My lord... is... is something ill brewing in the Emperor's court?," the guard asked softly, glancing around for any eavesdroppers to their conversation. There were none, thankfully, but the Decepticon remained silent, diverting his gaze when Springer tried to catch his visor persistently.

"West: good this time of season," was all the councilor would say after a klik, and Springer was forced to accept the poor response.

He may not have felt love towards the blue mech but Soundwave had earned his respect long ago. Whatever terrible burden his former master carried now, he hoped it would bring no misfortune to him or his household. "Very well, sir. We will take those headings," Springer said. "Thank you."

Soundwave visibly relaxed at the freed slave's willingness to take his selected path and the guard thought to say something else to the secretive Decepticon, when Arcee stepped out from the estate. Once again, the green mech was left speechless by the femme's beauty and he could only grin goofily, aware that he had earned his freedom and this damsel's servo, all in one orn. No 'bot could ever be so lucky.

Pushing her veil out of her face shyly, the femme approached her newly-named bondmate and former master; uncertain of whom she should turn her attention to first. Soundwave saved her the conundrum by stepping up to the Autobot, halting her path. "Status: wished to give you one more gift before you departed," he announced, reaching into his sash at the others' surprise. Whatever the two were expecting, the heavy purse of coin that the councilor withdrew was not it

"N-no, please!," Arcee squeaked, covering her face, coolant collecting in her optics. "M-master, I can't-!"

"Fact: is your dowry," Soundwave insisted, smiling beneath his mask as the femme shook her helm harder; Springer slack-jawed in amazement. "Status: every bride to receive one for their new future. Arcee: no exception."

"O-oh...," the femme hiccuped, before suddenly throwing herself at the Decepticon. Soundwave almost staggered from the tiny Autobot plowing into his front, visor winking in shock as he looked down at Arcee hugging him tightly. "T-thank you! Thank you so much, Master!," she spewed in an endless stream, spark overfilled with gratitude, "This i-is more than I ever could hope for! Thank you!"

Awkwardly, the councilor handed the purse to Springer, gently patting Arcee on the shoulder, trying to softly pull her away. "Suggestion: should head out now," he kindly spoke up as the femme finally withdrew. Her adoring, wet optics remained turned up to him still. "Journey: is long but the orn is not."

"Y-yes, of course," she conceded, venting slightly as she withdrew entirely. She turned to look at Springer then, who'd tucked the purse safely out of sight, and waited with a loving smile for his bondmate now.

"Wishing: many stellar cycles of happiness and health," Soundwave blessed, as Springer lifted Arcee up to the saddle before swinging up top himself. The guard nodded his thanks, while the femme turned another teary smile to the councilor.

"Oh!," she exclaimed suddenly as the green mech took the reins, steering their mount to the road. Arcee leaned over Springer's arm to see the Decepticon as she spoke. "My lord, I gave my farewells to Lord Tracks but I fear he is in distress again. Please, you will ensure he is well, won't you? I know he can be happy if only you were to look out for him."

The telepath didn't know how to respond. His emotions towards the winged slave were still toxic, but the concern and tenderness of the femme's own mind soothed some of his ill, leaving the councilor vastly aware of how much he still wished to make Tracks happy even now despite the raw state of his spark. "Promise: will do all I can," he replied, waving shortly to the two Autobots as they rode from the estate.

Soundwave remained in place until he had seen the pair disappear from the hillside road entirely, before he turned and stared at his home in uncertainty. Arcee visiting Tracks had been unprecedented; her mild concern even more so. It seemed the Autobot had calmed from his earlier fit, but what state did that leave him in now? The councilor could not guess and he did not care to investigate. In fact, he'd be happier if he saw nothing of Tracks for the next few orns.

And with that, Soundwave headed inside and to the sanctuary of his office.

**xxXxXxx**

What was becoming of him...?

Dusk was settling in once more, bringing life to the shadows as they curled tighter around the Autobot, the first airy nip of winter coming through the open windows. Tracks merely drew his legs in tighter to his chestplates, huddling closer to escape their reach. The mess had been cleared away, miraculously, by himself earlier, but now the hollow spaces where the wreckage once had been haunted him in substitute.

He just wanted to be left alone.

... _didn't he_?

His unfocused optics shuttered offline as Tracks vented weakly, fighting back trembles. He recalled when Arcee had come into his room earlier. Annoyed and perplexed by the sound of voices in the garden, accompanied by the ringing of a bell, the slave had been like a hornet trapped in a glass. He debated furiously over storming from his room or staying and quietly forgetting the world outside his sanctuary. When the knocking had come, Tracks was reluctant to admit that he'd retreated to his corner in fear, convinced that Soundwave had returned to make another show of his anger. His first display was already enough to make the Autobot realize that he meant nothing to the councilor and he couldn't understand why it caused his spark so much agony.

Yet when the door had opened half a klik later, it wasn't the blue mech that came through but a tiny femme. She approached, decked in glittering white, and looking up at her from his little corner, Tracks could of sworn it was Moonracer's spirit come for him. That illusion was quick to fade though, the femme's mouth opening, and Arcee's vocalizer coming forth.

"Lord Tracks... what's happened?" She knelt before him, optics dim with concern and sympathy as she took in his ragged appearance, tattered clothing and hazy gaze. In the face of her sweet love, the mech couldn't respond.

That she would come see him again, after he'd turn her away violently each and every time, especially since he'd forced himself on her not too long ago -how could she care, even now, despite all that? Coolant threatening to rise, Tracks merely withdrew into himself, creating a fortress from his arms and legs that he could hide behind. Arcee's worry only grew at the action and she set down the bouquet she carried with her so as to pull something out from under her dress' collar.

"I... I had hoped to come say goodbye to you and wish you well, but this is not the farewell I would have hoped for on such a blessed orn as this," she said softly, thumbing the small object in her cupped servos. The femme gave a short giggle to something that the mech could not understand, looking up with tears at the corner of her optics but the most loveliest smile on her lip components. Tracks had only ever seen one like it before... "Master Soundwave," she told, tone a touch breathless, "He... The Master has given me my freedom."

Tracks flinched slightly, chin lifting an inch from his fortress.

"H-he," Arcee continued, beaming even brighter now, growing more likely to cry with every passing astrosecond, "H-he has even _wed_ us. M-myself and a guard in t-the estate. I-i... I thought surely t-the Master would h-have us punished for such the c-crime of intimacy, but n-no, he... he d-decided to r-release us both last night and g-give us a ceremony as well. He's given m-me so much more than I c-could ever dream..."

Tracks watched as the femme wiped her optics, sniffling in happiness, while the other Autobot felt his processor whirl in a frenzy. She was... free? She was one of the ones Soundwave mentioned? Arcee was leaning forward and sluggishly, the mech was forced to focus on her, noticing that she held out a small, wood carving to him.

"I have to leave shortly...," the femme was saying, regretfully, "I wish I could stay longer and help you on your path, but as free people, we are expected to go and spread our roots elsewhere. My love is already preparing for our long trip. But, I... I want you to have this. It's my token of Primus; my good luck charm. It has held all my prayers and helped me through many things back in the my sparkling orns. I want you to have it now."

The mech could only stare.

Aside from his lack of faith, how could he possibly dare to take this precious item from the other slave?

At his relentless gaze, Arcee pushed out her servos more, optics pleading. "Please... take it?," she whispered. "It's all I have left to give and I fear for your wellness, Tracks."

The taller Autobot wanted to laugh. But he couldn't. He was incapable of sound, of emotion, of even his own thoughts. Wrestling with lethargy, he reached out one servo uncertainly, watching as the femme kindly placed her token in his waiting palm. Already, the carving felt heavy in his grasp and Tracks wondered how he even kept it aloft still.

"I know I've said it a hundred times, but please, don't despair," Arcee said softly, "Master Soundwave is not as evil as you believe. I know he can help you find peace, Lord Tracks, if only you'd let him earn your trust."

No answer from the frozen mech. Sighing, the femme gave her sparkfelt farewell, even daring to reach out and hug the slave, rising to her pedes afterwards and heading for the door. She paused, on her way around the berth, looking at the empty jar on the otherwise void vanity top. Without hesitation, Arcee placed her bouquet into the glass, gently fondling the flowers and leaves so that they were spread out at their fullest; filling the room with their fragrance and vibrant faces. Then she was gone and once again, Tracks found himself alone in growing darkness, unable to move and not certain what he'd do even if he did.

Optics glanced at the makeshift vase in the dim light, catching the beautiful flowers still there, and an aching sensation overcame the Autobot. Fingers curling tightly around the prayer token in his servo, the slave folded deeper into himself, weeping silently as the night wore on.

_What was becoming of him?_

**C.M.D: Be kind; give me your mind~ REVIEW, please?**


	18. Chapter 18

**C.M.D: Another update! Hurray! Not much to say... sorry there's not much else to be had for this update period... but please enjoy another chapter of angst for these two and I'll see you all again next month!**

Fall came quickly enough and along with it cooler breezes, thicker robes and new changes. Soundwave progressed through it as he did every stellar cycle prior; forgetting about Tracks altogether while he took stock of his estate and staff, preparing a report for the Emperor's tax collectors to view. It was only when Blitzwing commented on the councilor's release of two Autobot slaves, a couple months beforehand, that Soundwave recalled his promise to Arcee and his lack of thought towards the winged mech.

"Two Autobots? Just before the Emperor's new decree became effective? Tell me Soundwave, what reason did you release two Autobot slaves under?," the censor asked suspiciously.

The telepath frowned behind his mouthguard. "Fact: had served me nearly their whole lives. Status: were dedicated and loyal followers to the Empire. Their freedom was well-deserved," he answered.

Blitzwing only hummed and Soundwave need not glean the other's processor to know that he didn't believe him. "In either case, do remember that Lord Megatron's decree now means that Autobot slaves can not be freed," the tan mech reminded, "I'd so hate to report you to Lady Strika should you not adhere to the law."

The blue Decepticon could have pounded that sneering tone from Blitzwing's vocalizer, but that would easily be seen as treachery and Soundwave did not want to bring further attention to himself. So the telepath merely dismissed the censor's jibe and returned home, unsure how to proceed. The Emperor's new law... it was a problem. It meant that come the new stellar cycle, Soundwave could not release Tracks, without him and the Autobot both being punished. Tracks was trapped here.

And the councilor was trapped with him.

Spark heavy with all the implications and future possibilities, Soundwave returned to his office, hoping that work would ease his troubled processor.

**xxXxXxx**

Cycles passed before Soundwave noticed; only the rapping at his office door rousing him from his productive trance. "Order: entry.," he called, setting down his quill and parchment, turning in his seat in time to see a guard enter.

"My lord," the servant greeted, bowing. Soundwave waited for him to straighten once more. "The guards patrolling the garden noted a strange presence there. They ask to know what your command is."

The councilor was silent for a moment. An intruder on his estate was to be captured and jailed immediately; the guards knew that, so why were they asking him what to do? "Query: Why has the intruder not been cuffed yet?," he demanded, finding his patience a little less this night.

The guard hesitated at the harsh tone from the Decepticon, bowing again as he fumbled an apology. "My sincerest regrets at disturbing you, my lord, it's just that the others do not want to do something against your wishes. After all, milord has commanded that the winged Autobot be exempted normal policy."

This time, Soundwave flinched. So the intruder in the garden was actually Tracks... What was the slave doing out there? Was he attempting to escape? The telepath worried quietly, as the guard stood by, suddenly remorseful that he had neglected the slave the last couple months. He had no idea if Tracks had deteriorated back to his old self nor the state of health he was currently in. Soundwave had not bothered asking the staff to keep tabs on the Autobot and now he found himself in the dark. A tad frightened, the councilor rose to his pedes, dismissing the guard. "Status: Shall see to the Autobot myself. Order: Clear the garden in the meantime," he instructed.

The guard nodded in acknowledgement, hurrying on ahead to carry out the Decepticon's commands. Soundwave, though, continued at a much slower pace. He had honestly forgotten about Tracks. The shame burned, even hotter when the telepath realized he'd felt less burdened without the thought of the winged slave buzzing about his helm. It _had_ been a blessed reprieve, away from the Autobot's presence, but now Soundwave was at a crossroads. Did he hold onto the anger that had possessed him the last time he met face-to-face with Tracks? Or did he try and be compassionate, offering the slave anything that he wished?

The councilor was inclined to follow the second because of his guilt, yet he bundled himself in a layer of false anger instead as he headed from the warm halls into the cool night. It was cold this evening. Soundwave paused for a moment, slowly surveying the garden as he adjusted to the nippy temperature, wishing he'd thought to bring a cloak. But it was too late now and going back would only delay the inevitable, so Soundwave pressed on.

Walking through the moonlit garden, the Decepticon half expected to be attacked by the Autobot, yet when he finally caught sight of Tracks, it was nothing like he expected. Dressed in a thin night robe, the winged mech sat unsheltered from the cold within the gazebo, tears streaming down his cheekplates as he gazed up at the silver moon. Even before he approached, Soundwave knew something was wrong. Tracks' processor was an unfathomable void and it curtained the entire area like a shroud. Suppressing a shiver, the Decepticon slowly walked closer, pausing on the gazebo steps. Though he'd been sure to keep his pedefalls heavy, no response came from the slave, and so the councilor stood there in the cold for what felt like cycles as he waited for Tracks to notice him.

Then, when Soundwave began to feel frightened, he did. Chin tipping away from the cloudless sky, Tracks looked towards his master; optics like shattered stars in the dim light as they wept in continuous silence. "...have you come to release me?," rouge-lip components parted weakly, a whispered croak escaping.

The Decepticon flinched again. Even if he promised, he could no longer free the winged mech. Doing so would mean immediate death for Tracks... but Soundwave was certain that freedom from slavery was not what the Autobot was referring to. When the silence stretched on between the two 'bots, with no answer given, Tracks drew into himself a little; staring down into his open palms, where a small prayer token sat.

"No... I didn't think anyone was listening," the slave murmured, an entire galaxy extinguished as optics shuttered tight.

Soundwave didn't know what to do. He watched, transfixed, as the Autobot curled further into himself, servos fisting the prayer token tight as their owner shook violently with tears. It was the most spark-breaking sight the councilor had ever seen, made worse by the wave of maddening sorrow that shot forth from Tracks suddenly; almost sending Soundwave to his knees with its crippling force. Tanks roiling with nausea, the Decepticon slowly knelt in place, focusing his gaze on the Autobot again when he heard the broken sobs.

"I-i... I'm sorry," the winged mech hiccupped, still nestled in his self-made shelter, "I'm, I'm sorry..."

He repeated himself a few times over, cheekplates streams for the coolant pouring thickly, as the councilor stared on in shocked horror. This was the first time Tracks had ever even apologized to him... What monster was he to deserve such words at the poor Autobot's breaking point?

"Tracks: Don't-," he started weakly. The telepath's words didn't make it far before another wave of grief threatened to bring him to tears as well.

"S-same... h-how can you b-both be so si-similar?," Tracks heaved disjointedly, once more reminding Soundwave of the femme the slave had lost before his freedom too was taken. "N-not clean... not good e-enough for a-anyone b-but she... y-you... gi-giving me s-something so p-precious...? _W-why_?"

Suddenly, it clicked. The Autobot's confession, the peek into his memories once more -it cleared away the confusion and left the councilor even weaker with his own dose of self-loathing. Tracks had lost his virginity long before slavery; he met someone pure and untouched, then honoured Moonracer by abandoning his own liberal past and waiting to join with her on their bonding orn. She had been sweet and loving and more than anyone could deserve as a bondmate... Then she was stolen...

And now, here the two mechs sat, Soundwave having given Tracks that same intimacy he should have had with Moonracer, but never would. The Decepticon felt disgusted with himself. He had immediately assumed that the slave was rejecting him because of his inexperience, and had grown hateful towards him for it, when Tracks' reasons had always been deeper than that. How could he forget...?

"I-i'm sorry, s-sorry...," the Autobot wept still, unaware of the telepath staring into his lap with sickening regret, "S-sorry I-i did... So-sorry I d-didn't... n-not the sa-same as th-them... w-wished you were..."

Soundwave could say nothing to that. What words were there to share that would alleviate any of this pain? He'd claimed to care but the councilor had willingly dismissed Tracks, held him to biased accusations and then proceeded to forget he existed as he suffered with silent demons. He let his own lack of confidence hurt the one he loved at the slightest sign of rejection. Meanwhile, Tracks battled once more against the sorrow of his not so-long-ago past life, reminded of his trauma and torn between what he knew and what Soundwave showed him. He could finally acknowledge that the blue mech was different among his kin... but it was no surprise, especially given their last meeting, that the slave wished his master no different than the rest.

In a small, hidden part of him, Soundwave wished it too. At least then, he would have spared them both the pain. The night was getting colder; yet Tracks hadn't retreated from his self-made fortress, and considering he was weeping still, the councilor doubted he would be anytime soon. On another orn, he may have carried the Autobot -willing or not- to his berthroom and out of the cold. Tonight, the telepath couldn't even press past the barrier of misery the winged mech exuded, nor did he have the spark to touch the slave. He'd done more than enough damage without bringing physical back into this.

Unable to voice his own guilt, Soundwave rose; leaving Tracks to weep over fresh wounds and lost love under the frigid moon's watchful gaze.

**xxXxXxx**

"-are you even listening? Soundwave!"

The telepath looked up from his viewpoint of the floor, finding Megatron glaring at him with impatience. A quick glance about informed Soundwave that he had the entire group's attention and their processors spoke of treachery and ill-will upon their fellow Decepticon. Realizing he had made a grave error, Soundwave bowed humbly, trying to his vocalize his regret but the Emperor brushed him off before he had a chance.

"Perhaps, if you cannot focus, my dear councilor, I should have your position revoked?," Megatron demanded testily, continuing his march down the hall. Everyone followed in stride. "Would that be more suitable to you, Soundwave, instead of wasting my time?"

"Apologies: Did not mean to be dismissive of you, my Lord. Status: was absorbing the news you had shared so graciously," the blue mech said, desperate to appease the Warlord. In truth, he had heard none of the conversation that had apparently taken place; too wrapped up in his own troubles and guilt.

Tracks once more reined in his processor, but after that cold night the garden, the telepath could not escape the consequences that his careless choices had brought about. Both his home and his thoughts remained sunken in a deep, dank void, while guilt at the fabric of the councilor's sanity. Trying to formulate some sort of solution was out of the question- Tracks had retreated from sight again and Soundwave dared not confront the Autobot a second time, believing himself unworthy of even offering comfort. Truly, things had deteriorated much farther than they had began...

Alas, those were all subsidiary and were best left forgotten at court. Soundwave could not afford a second slip-up this orn.

"Yes, I suppose it is a lot to digest," Megatron was saying, unaware of the councilor trying to refocus on the situation at hand, "But, it is progress to eradicating the rats that try to infest my Empire."

"Unfortunately, there are some that take displeasure from the changes towards Autobot slaves," Blitzwing commented with a sneer, from the right of the Emperor, "But Lady Strika is quick to make them see the error of their ways."

"Agreed," answered the robust femme, for once joining their private little circle; substitute for the presence of both Starscream and Lugnut. Out of everyone's thoughts there, hers were the most plain and quiet -a great change of pace to the telepath.

"It is a shame slavers create such a large trade: they lack any real focus or strength. Whiners the lot, stealing from the teat of the Empire," she spat disdainfully. "Easily swayed by credit, but for those that aren't, I am happy to flog myself."

"Yes," Megatron rumbled with mirth, "You do well by my name, Lady Strika. Lugnut it a very lucky mech."

Strika, not one to shyness, blushed with modesty at the Warlord's praise, even as her chestplates puffed out with pride. "In time, all the discontented will find their place in my new Empire," the silver mech continued, "And even as we speak, the Autobots' pitiful liberation of their kin is-"

The entire party looked to Megatron as he trailed off, following the Warlord's sour gaze to the messenger quickly approaching them. Recognizing it as one of his own servants, Soundwave stepped forward to meet the mech; the poor 'bot skidding to a halt and wheezing as he tried to deliver his words. "M-milord," he gasped, "A-apologies, b-but the Autobot Tr-tracks -he h-has fallen severely i-ill!"

The words were barely shared before Soundwave felt his spark seize.

"Autobot Tracks..," Megatron began, drawing the frazzled councilor's attention. The silver Decepticon's face was void of any expression, placing a touch of fear into the telepath's erratic, pulsating orb. He hoped that this latest interruption would not end unwell... "Ah, yes," Emperor went on, tone lighter than it was an astrosecond ago. "Your concubine. Go, Soundwave. I have no more need of you this orn and I doubt you wish to lose such a valuable possession."

Stunned for a moment by his good fortunate, the blue mech quickly nodded and hurried after the messenger, back through the main court and to his carriage out front. "Order: Tell me how this happened," he commanded of the poor servant, as they clambered into the cab together.

**xxXxXxx**

He was such a fool...

The thought made itself known as Soundwave treaded carefully through the dark room; lighting a lantern on the vanity and checking the water of the nearby basin. The liquid within had cooled considerably, but it was still very hot to the touch. A perfect temperature. In silence, the councilor added into the water a satchel of dried herbs and roots, swirling the odd-looking concoction with the accompanying cotton clothe.

Once he was sure everything had its chance to absorb and settle, Soundwave grabbed the basin and returned to his previous post: Tracks' berthside. The Autobot did not notice the blue mech's presence, nor had he once prior during the several cycles Soundwave had fretted silently by his side. And not surprisingly, either. The councilor had already heard the healer's assessments, just as he had heard the testimony of several of his staff. Tracks had been found collapsed in the gazebo... The servants noted that he'd been seen in the gardens all orn for the last few orns; the guards echoed the same statement during their nightly rounds. Not a single 'bot had noticed that the winged mech wasn't merely popping by every once in a while, in actuality, never once having moved from his spot since Soundwave had left him in the gazebo one night earlier in the week.

The healer confirmed that a series of unprotected exposure to the cold and lack of proper nutrition had caused the Autobot to collapse into a dreadful fever. If not for the councilor's good will and stature, Tracks may have very well died in a couple orns' time with his condition as bad as it was. It was that, on top of everything else, that caused the Decepticon to grieve in silent despair. How could he be so negligent a second time?

He'd already forgotten about the slave for almost a few months, and it had caused Tracks to fall apart, yet after witnessing the poor mech in such a state the only thing Soundwave had done was abandon him once more. What kind of monster was he?! No one in the compound cared for the Autobot -if not ordered, they would not trouble themselves with Tracks' well-being, and they had demonstrated that fact by leaving the mech in the gazebo for so long. Only Soundwave, who was master over Tracks, and Arcee, who had kindly befriended the winged Autobot, had ever cared about the slave. And with the absence of the femme, the councilor had not been doing his part...

It was him who had brought the other mech to this condition and it was time he stopped wallowing with guilt and take responsibility. It was that reasoning alone that Soundwave dismissed all others, assigning himself to oversee Tracks' recovery, despite how much he wished to run away from his feelings and the heavy weight of consequence. For now, the telepath soothed himself with the knowledge that he would not have to face the slave until he awoke from his fever... but when he did, the Decepticon knew he would have to atone for his actions. It was inescapable.

Miserable once more, Soundwave reached for the clothe in the basin; wringing it out until it was only somewhat damp and gently lying it across Tracks' burning forehelm. A small groan escaped the Autobot at the cool touch, his pained expression easing slightly in recharge. The telepath watched, hypnotized. Sick as he was, Soundwave could glean nothing from Tracks' addled processor, and it might have bothered him more if the slave's intakes didn't also settle from a horrible rattle to a slow, even cycle. It was an improvement.

Smiling unknowingly, Soundwave leaned in to collect the clothe as it began to warm; finding, to his spark's distress, blue optics gazing up at him blearily as he pulled away. "Y-you...?," Tracks croaked, unaware of the flinch the Decepticon gave.

The councilor hurried to wring the clothe out in the basin again, almost fumbling it as he brought it back to the Autobot's helm. "Fact: Is me," he replied softly, "Status: Are sick with severe fever. Tracks: must rest and recover."

The Autobot shuttered his optics slowly, still dazed, before he wheezed out, "Then w-why are you he-here?"

Soundwave felt a pang of guilt as he pressed the cold clothe to Tracks' helm. "...Tracks' state: My fault. Taking responsibility and helping you recover is only right," the blue mech answered, almost whispering. It was not a confession he had hoped to make just yet but it was one the slave deserved. He only hoped that Tracks forgave him...

Soundwave startled out of his reverie when he felt warm fingers touch gently against his wrist, glancing down once more to discover Tracks staring up at him, but this time with sad optics. "I...," the Autobot started, coolant clouding his vision, "I'm sorry."

"A-apologies: not needed-," Soundwave tried to interrupt, but Tracks only shook his helm violently; his grip tightening around the Decepticon's wrist.

"N-no," the winged mech choked, intakes rattling, "P-please... I-i... I was wrong about you... I'm s-sorry..."

Astonishment did not even begin to cover what the telepath felt. He searched, and fearfully probed, but all he knew was that Tracks was sincere in his apology... Grieving, but honest... There was nothing for it. Soundwave vented quietly, resting his captured servo on the slave's helm again, watching as the other mech shuttered his optics for a moment in exhaustion. "Tracks: Must rest now," was all the councilor said. "Status: food ready whenever you can eat."

Tracks barely had a chance to nod in response before he succumbed to a fever-ridden recharge a second time. Soundwave remained as he was for several, long kliks, before he was able to release himself from the Autobot's grip and return to his diligent waiting.

**C.M.D: Be kind; give me your mind~ REVIEW, please?**


	19. Chapter 19

**C.M.D: It has been a long, long, LONG time since I wrote a chapter for SoV, but I'm glad to have cranked one out. Especially since we've hit the story's apex. With any luck, my muses will let me put a chapter together every update period, so you can enjoy the ride without further delays. In the meantime, please enjoy what I do have this month!**

For a long time, he remembered being cold. Like fangs of liquid ice biting deep beneath his plating, chilling everything under the surface yet scorching him on the outside. It left the mech writhing in agony for cycles on end; praying to be spared of this torment as he slipped between delirium and sense.

His only reprieve came in the form of a stout Decepticon, with golden servos and a golden plate hiding his face, caring for the bedridden mech in unexpected kindness. There should have been anger at the sight of the slave owner by his berthside -even disgust would have been acceptable- yet Tracks could carry no such feelings in his spark any longer. The winged mech had cried aplenty while his processor finally gave up the pretense that Soundwave was his enemy. In this place, he had no other ally.

Imprisoned by fever, Tracks battled with all the realities and truths he had ignored for so long, while on the outside, Soundwave fought to keep the Autobot alive. In those unknown moments, he said farewell to the image of Moonracer once and for all, trembling servos unable to keep her on this plane for another orn. The absence of her in his spark left the winged mech hollow and the grief of it would have been enough to drive him further into sickness. Yet, not a moment after he began to mourn the loss of his betrothed, did another figure enter into Tracks' delirium and the slave was not surprised when he recognized them as Soundwave.

Embraced by the blue mech's phantom in unconsciousness and nursed by the original in his few waking kliks, the Autobot felt the edge of his illness soften and the pain start to cease entirely. He began to carry a sense of serenity and trust that Tracks had not held in what seemed to be an eternity. It cleared away the last of the poisons from his processor and put a flicker of hope in his healing spark.

But when the slave roused from the fever fully, it was to find himself alone without sign or word of his benevolent caretaker. A stone of sorrow pressing on his glossa, Tracks shuttered his optics, feeling like a fool.

**xxXxXxx**

Sunlight poured warmly through the windows of the estate, shimmering off of the heavy dew drops from the night's rain and carrying an uplifting scent of fresh blooms into the painted halls. Enjoying himself a quiet stroll, Soundwave cycled the precious spring air deeply, glad that its presence signaled the end of a long, arduous winter. It meant the start of his annual checks for the Empire as well, but the telepath was looking forward to a full schedule once more.

"Good morn, Master," a portly femme greeted, approaching the Decepticon from the side. She curtsied as Soundwave faced her, straightening and smoothing the front of her apron after a moment. "I just wished to inform you that the storeroom stock has already been counted and I have personally overseen the end-of-season check of the staff's health. No concerns to note."

"Updates: acknowledged," the blue mech replied, gesturing for the matron to follow as he continued his walk. She did so immediately, keeping one step behind her master respectively. "Order: Gather an able-bodied team and present them a copy of items for restocking. Have a coach take them to the market and shop for what's necessary. Status: Shall send payment to the merchants later."

"Understood, my lord," the matron said, curtsying again. She started to turn but paused, giving a little cough as she awkwardly faced the telepath. "Pardon my rudeness, milord, but is there anything you require for the Autobot Tracks?"

Soundwave straightened stiffly at the mention of the winged slave's name, uncharacteristically mute. "Fact: nothing required. May return to your duties," he answered belatedly, dismissing the femme. He could hear her doubt echo loudly, even as she walked away, yet the matron did not speak up on it. All the same, the telepath found himself judging his actions harshly.

It had been a fortnight since he had last seen Tracks, and that involved tending to the Autobot diligently while he struggled to overcome a series case of fever. Once the sickness had alleviated, Soundwave had tasked a servant to watch over the multi-coloured mech for the final orns of his recovery and had immediately set to distancing himself again. It was cowardice, of course, but the Decepticon knew of no other option.

Seeing Tracks -so frail and weak, wavering on the edge of death- had shaken the councilor to his very core. He'd wasted every cycle at the other's berthside, overwhelmed with the terror that all of his efforts would be in vain. In that instant, Soundwave knew that he truly and wholly loved the Autobot... And the telepath distanced himself the moment he was sure Tracks would be well again. After this scare, how could Soundwave had ever believe that he may live his life fully without the winged mech's spark to call his own? He did not have the spark to play another game of touch-and-go with Tracks, so how was he to keep the slave in his estate for the rest of his orns, neither of them being ever happier?

These sort of thoughts were not helping to resolve the issues at hand. Sighing softly, Soundwave turned left down the next hallway, heading for the library. With no other task on his personal agenda this orn, it seemed best to distract himself with a book or two.

The councilor was just opening the door to the library when he realized it wasn't as empty as he had originally thought it was. Stepping back hurriedly, the telepath pulled the door after him until it remained ajar only a couple inches, peering through the crack anxiously. Within, Tracks moved about the library, climbing up on a short stool to polish the gold filaments and wall brackets until they shone brightly in the sunlight. Soundwave was shocked. He knew that the winged mech had been diligent in taking care of the library, but the Decepticon had not anticipated Tracks being so dedicated in his responsibility. Guided by those slender servos, every inch of the library had been dusted, cleansed, polished and organized. The curtains had been taken down, aired and beaten free of dirt, and now fluttered lightly in the spring breeze. Library tables and chairs had been given a gentle massage with varnish, leaving the wood glowing, and the cushions were freshly washed and plump. Books were dust-free and filled the shelves; ordered by colour, series, author and even subject. From the floorboards to the domed ceiling above, every inch of the room was restored, rich with colour and highlighting the intricate carvings decorated around the library.

The entire space was a wonder to behold under the golden light... yet nothing could compare to the winged mech radiated in the holy glow. Spark pulsating rapidly, Soundwave took another step back, finally shutting the door with a quiet click. What a fool was he. Venting heavily, the councilor slowly released the doorknob and turned away, deciding to head for his office to be alone with his thoughts.

**xxXxXxx**

Perched on his stool, Tracks came to a pause in the middle of his work, craning his helm about the room curiously. Nothing was amiss though, and despite having been certain he'd heard the door open, it was still closed. "Idiot...," the mech mumbled to himself, turning back to the bracket he'd been polishing, "Face it, he's not coming. Expecting that he will come through that door any moment is pointless."

But why should it be?

The slave halted in his chore a second time, before grunting and scrubbing at the bracket ruthlessly, until the wax disappeared entirely and his fingers started cramping. With an irritated sigh, Tracks stepped down from the stool, collapsing on the wooden bench in a sudden rush of tired limbs. Absent-mindedly, he stared at his polish-stained servos, noting a cloud of dust on his tunic and even a thin string of cobwebs trailing from his knee joints -all physical signs to confirm the exhaustion he felt. If only his tiredness was the result of hard labor alone and not the sickening weight of doubt tethered around his spark.

Was there a reason to Soundwave avoiding him again? Tracks threw his servos down with another sigh, then lifted them again to hug himself as his tanks roiled uneasily. It just didn't make sense! Certainly the councilor had a responsibility towards the winged mech, but did general concern equate to staying at one's berthside and personally tending to an ill slave? Within this realm, such a concept was ridiculous. Even laughable, really. And given Soundwave's track record toward him, the Autobot had to wonder if the kindness had actually been a prelude to something more.

….Or perhaps he had transformed that 'something more' into loathing after all the times he'd attacked the Decepticon.

After all, Soundwave had lashed out vehemently at fall's end, then proceeded to treat the slave like a discarded possession -useless and forgettable. At the recollection of the blue mech's anger, Tracks began to tremble minutely; hugging himself tighter while his optics warmed over. He deserved every harsh thing the councilor had said that orn, yet it had stung. Every bit of it. And Soundwave was right. The Autobot had everything back then, and then some, but was too wrapped up in his hatred and pain to truly acknowledge it.

Something dripped onto the multi-coloured mech's knees, shocking their owner from his piteous thoughts. Staring at the splattered tear drop upon his plating in bafflement, it was a klik before Tracks was wiping the rest from his cheekplates; his actions lethargic and clumsy as he arose from his daze. Losing himself to another cycle of grief would accomplish nothing, and after the last one, he really did not wish to experience such a darkness again. Things could not repeat a second time. Rising to his pedes quickly, the Autobot gathered his cleaning materials into one pile on a table, before rushing out of the library under the flame of fresh determination.

Now was a time for action, not indecisiveness.

**xxXxXxx**

The cycles had passed at a snail's pace, never speeding up, though the telepath had certainly tried to make them do so. Unfortunately, all it resulted in was a pair of sore pedes, a budding processor-ache and a good workout around the compound. His distractions a failure and his spark still filled with dour thoughts of Tracks, Soundwave decided to call it a night and started for his room. He paused only to summon a passing slave over, instructing the tiny femme to have dinner brought to his quarters immediately and a hot bath drawn as he ate. Once she'd hurried off, the blue mech continued on his way, not at all surprised to find his meal had arrived to his room before he did.

In the privacy of his own berthroom, Soundwave removed his mask, setting it to the side of his plate as he sat down before his dinner. After that point, the councilor only proceeded to stare at the hot meal; even attempting a bite did nothing for his lack of appetite and in fact made the mech feel ill. With a heavy sigh, Soundwave pushed away his food, donning his mask and exiting the room. Seeing as how dinner was not an option tonight, the Decepticon sorely wished to bathe so he might have a dreamless recharge. The bathhouse was filled with steam when the telepath arrived; wisps of it visibly curling off the water as he slipped into the tub, finding the temperature wondrously hot, but not scalding. Removing his clothes, Soundwave let himself sink deeper into the bath, until the water lapped at his collar strut and the muggy air made thinking harder. Enjoying himself finally...

...Until something cool and wet touched his shoulder plating unbidden. Pushing away from the side of the tub suddenly, the blue mech whirled around, snatching his assailant's arm in a crushing grasp. He was duly unprepared though for the face he found staring back in equal surprise.

**xxXxXxx**

Soundwave was actively ignoring him. The sun was beginning to make a downward descent as Tracks circled back around to his room, having spent an entire orn searching the estate; always several steps behind the Decepticon, never catching up. Now it was evening, and the only thought on the slave's processor was how he didn't know where to find the blue mech. Was there any point in trying any more?

Wings lowering behind him, the Autobot shuffled up to his door, ready to simply collapse in his berth. He stopped just in the doorway though, glancing down at his frame and dusty tunic. A bath first, he decided, would probably be a wise idea. Grabbing a spare tunic from the armoire, Tracks hurried on to the bathhouse, hoping that a warm soak might help ease his troubled thoughts. Imagine his surprise when he cracked the door open to meet a wall of steam. Frozen in alarm, the multi-coloured mech debated just leaving entirely, until his optics gleaned a familiar helm through the warm mist. Spark pulsing quickly, Tracks shuffled a couple more steps inside. It seemed he hadn't been noticed yet, he mused, shutting the door softly behind himself, so the next question was how to proceed.

Optics flashed about the room rapidly, searching for an answer; glowing brightly as they landed on the table of bath oils and scents to his left.

**xxXxXxx**

Soundwave shuttered his optics behind his visor, struggling to think through the shock. "You-?!"

"O-ow...," whispered Tracks, wincing as the golden fingers around his forearm tightened unconsciously. Hearing it, the councilor released the slave in a hurry, sliding away from the tub edge. His other servo cupping where Soundwave had grabbed him, the winged mech watched the other's frazzled retreat with anxious optics; scooting as close to the edge as he dared in response. "W-wait," he gasped, "Please!"

"Query: What are you doing here?," the telepath demanded stiffly, his shoulders straightening back in his anger. "Tracks: Up to your tricks again?"

"N-no, I...," the Autobot stammered, thrown by the sudden vehemency. "I j-just... I was only wanting to help," he finished in a meek mumble, presenting the sudsy sponge in his right servo as evidence.

Soundwave stared at the bath sponge incredulously, before wading further into the tub, where the floor sunk deep enough to allow a mech his size to stand up and still have the water at a comfortable level around his abdomen. "Help: Unwanted. Fact: Have a heinous record where 'help' is implicated," he accused, a large finger jutted at the winged mech. "Suggest: Leave this very moment before guards are summoned."

Clutching the sponge tightly, Tracks shook his helm, fixing the councilor with a stubborn stare. "I-i... I'm only talking," he protested, pedes sliding into the tub as he tried to get closer to his master. "This isn't a trick or some sort of trap. Would you come here and just talk with me?"

"Answer: No," came the curt reply.

"Why-" The Autobot paused abruptly, starting to feel as if he was going to lose it. He hadn't anticipated Soundwave to be so contentious, and engaging in another altercation with the Decepticon only caused the aching in his spark to return tenfold. Struggling through the knot forming in his vocalizer, Tracks continued, "I know I've been in the wrong and I've made my apologies. I'm just trying to make things better now, okay? Is it really so hard for you to believe that I'm being honest?"

"Status: Not the time or place," Soundwave answered, his tone even more biting than before.

Tracks scowled at it, throwing the sponge down as his emotions got the best of him. "Why? Why isn't this a good time?," he demanded, optics heating over quickly. He had just wanted to talk, slaggit! Not erupt into a screaming match. "Is it because you're undressed? If you'll recall, we've both been in an equally naked state beforehand."

The mention of that night so long ago now, where Soundwave had offered everything to Tracks only to be rejected after, was the last straw. "Order: Get out..."

"But-"

"Repeat: GET OUT!," the councilor bellowed, striding through the water impossibly quick and grabbing the slave by his neck. "Order: Leave this very instant or so help me, you shall be confined to your quarters and punished severely for your defiance!," he growled, giving the Autobot a hard shake.

Blue optics, wet with unshed tears, stared back at him in mute shock, before they darkened and a gloom seemed to settle into the room. Soundwave decidedly did not care; he wouldn't fall for any more of Tracks' mind games. He would not allow himself to be hurt another time. "Query: Do you understand?," he asked lowly.

A small, restrained nod of Tracks' helm was his only answer. Still in turmoil from anger, fear and grief, the telepath threw the Autobot away from himself, red visor fixed on the winged mech impatiently. It took almost a klik before the slave was able to stand to his pedes again; lowered optics glancing at Soundwave for a short moment before turning to the floor passively. With more dignity than the councilor believed he deserved, Tracks smoothed the hem of his tunic and straightened the material around his shoulders, poised like a goddess as he strutted from the bath hall.

Only once the door had been shut behind the slave, did some semblance of guilt pierce its way through the telepath's anger.

**xxXxXxx**

He had thought...

Servos moved quickly in the dim moonlight, placing a prayer token into a small purse, alongside some beads and small, lose gems. They clinked against the few coins within and fingers moved quickly to smother the sound; tying the drawstring tight and placing the purse into a hidden pocket sewn inside his tunic.

He'd really thought he could make things better now. After all, he'd finally realized a great number of things and was willing to atone for his actions. But apparently, he was not so forgivable.

A sigh threatened to escape, yet had no way to move past the tears squeezing his neck cables closed. He fought to keep the bulk of them down, having spent too many cycles this evening weeping anyhow, but a couple still escaped as the slave pulled a small cloak from the armoire. Over and over, his processor replayed the confrontation in the bath hall earlier that night; spark withering in despair at the memories.

_'I think I love you,'_ he'd wanted to shout. His master had left no room for such words though and fear had robbed him of any motivation to speak them.

Pathetic, the slave thought to himself. He'd suffered and endured more hardships than was duly fair, only, in an unexpected twist, to find himself falling for one of the very Decepticons that placed him in such a situation. Or so he believed. Perhaps he was wrong though. Perhaps the Autobot was mistaking these emotions as affection, when really they were something else. He really didn't know anymore... It felt akin to the feelings he had carried when Moonracer had been in his life. Similar, yet unique.

But he'd been wrong about his master having a civil conversation with him, so it was very likely that he was wrong about this too.

Clasping the cloak in place and double-checking that his purse was hidden away securely, the winged mech exited his berthroom and hastily headed for the estate's front door. He left no note and garnered no attention as he made his way to the stables; the lies slipping off his glossa easily to the coachmech, who prepared to take the slave into the city.

Under the pink sky, pregnant with the rising swell of a new orn, Tracks disappeared down the cliffside road -out of sight of the coach, out of sight of the estate, and out of sight of any who might care.

**C.M.D: Be kind; give me your mind~ REVIEW, please?**


	20. Chapter 20

**C.M.D: Been a long while since I did another chapter for this fic, but I'm glad to crank one out again. Getting ever closer to the end and diving into the real thick of things -oh, the plans I have for these two! Anyways, please read and enjoy yet another update in this new year!**

As it seemed routine now, the night had not been a restful one for Soundwave. Plagued with doubts and reflecting uncertainly on his actions in the bath hall, it had taken cycles for the telepath to quiet his tumultuous thoughts long enough to finally breach the gap between conscious and unconsciousness. Alas, that had only granted him a couple, miserable cycles of recharge before Soundwave was rising once more. Skipping breakfast, he marched right for his office, eager to distract himself for the entirety of the orn. And what luck, the councilor thought, perusing the scrolls waiting on his desk. He still had to prepare the Emperor's annual report. That meant a long orn down in the city, interviewing selected subjects and documenting both their business and private lives. Gathering his necessary materials into a satchel, the blue mech headed this time for the estate's entrance, stepping out into the pink-tinged morning. He noticed something was off the moment he noticed the odd lack of activity in the yard, even before the pressing cloud of fright reached his thoughts.

At the sound of carriage wheels cracking loudly, Soundwave looked up, watching in bafflement as his coach barrelled up the road towards the estate in a hurry. Just what exactly were his servants doing out on the road so early in the morn?

"M-my lord!," the driver yelped, snapping on the reins harder. The beasts at the front quickened their lumbering, carrying the carriage closer to the councilor. "I-it -I m-mean, he said- T-the Autobot Tracks, h-he-!"

Confusion turned to anger and then into panic in less than as astrosecond, the telepath grasping the answer from his frazzled servant's processor. Tracks had run away again. "Order: Head back down the road!," Soundwave barked, grabbing onto the coach and hoisting himself up to the side door before it had even stopped. "Emphasis: Quickly! Do not stop until commanded!"

The driver nodded his helm fretfully, the reins cracking as he pushed the beasts to circle around the yard and back towards the road, while the councilor awkwardly opened the door and threw himself into the bouncing carriage. Getting up and closing the door behind himself, Soundwave took up position at the opposite window, his optics squinting as they tried to scan across the gold-tinged hills rolling into sight. All of his negative emotions for Tracks and last night's tricks were set aside for a moment, his spark pulsing to an erratic tempo. Running away... The Autobot had not attempted such a stupid endeavour in months! Considering the progress of matters, Soundwave had honestly thought those orns were long past them. Most slaves only tried once or twice before failure either taught them common sense or relieved them of thought entirely, yet Tracks was special in that regard. Obviously his time under the Decepticon's care had never made him susceptible to that lesson and now the winged mech did not know the trouble he was walking right into.

Especially with Megatron's new decrees having been put into affect the last couple weeks.

Soundwave strained his optics to see farther across the colorful hillside; trying to project his telepathy past the carriage and his staffs' anxious ponderings at the same time. He would need everything to spot Tracks before the Emperor's patrols did and if he did not... If he failed to find the slave first, the councilor would receive a notice of Tracks' status, along with the return of his golden collar. Tanks churning chaotically, Soundwave prayed that would not be the case.

**xxXxXxx**

Tracks walked over the rugged hillside, trying to plant his pedes evenly among the scrub and bush, yet tripping on the small, loose rocks and hardened clumps of soil all the same. This, he bemoaned silently, was not going to be as easy a task as he had first thought. Already his plating was dinged and sore from his trek through the untamed vegetation; intakes cycling heavily at the general strain this was putting on his frame. _'I've become feeble,'_ the mech thought mournfully. Too many orns, pampered and domesticated, had robbed him of his prior strength. Not that the Autobot had ever lived a very athletic life before his slavery, but he certainly could have managed a simple hike without feeling exhausted a few kliks in. And with the sun rising high into the sky, soaking the colour rich valley in a blanket of heat, Tracks was beginning to feel like this whole endeavour was grossly ill-advised on his part.

Pausing, beginning to condense under his thicker cloak, the slave reached for his purse, fumbling over the drawstrings before remembering that he had no water on himself. He had hoped he would be able to march from the capitol before needing to quench his thirst... Venting wearily, Tracks grabbed for the only other thing (aside from jewels and coins) -a piece of cheese and unpeeled fruit kept from his final meal in Soundwave's estate- devouring them for their moisture. It sated, for now, but he would have to move quicker to avoid hunger or thirst later on. Sealing his purse up once more, the Autobot continued onward, starting to crest a small incline. He had barely made it halfway before a shadow suddenly rose and cut across the golden horizon; its lanky presence falling down upon the winged mech. Startled by the sudden cast of shade, Tracks stopped once more, trying to peer up past the glare and see the unknown entity for what it really was. At first, he worried that Soundwave or his servants had already found him, but then he saw the buckles as they flashed in the morning light, and Tracks felt his spark drop down into his roiling tanks.

Imperial sentries...

He ran. There was no time to think about it; no astrosecond that could be spared for deliberation. Knowing who he was and the mark he bore, Tracks was as good as dead should he be caught by one of the capitol's guards. So he turned and dashed back down the hillside, hopping that the uneven terrain would provide him some leverage against his pursuer. There was the sound of the sentry's horse neighing into the sky before rider and beast came thundering down the underbrush. Favour was not on his side. Panicked servos tugged at the cloak around his neck, miraculously undoing the clasp and letting the extra weight drop to the ground like a rock, giving the slave a boost of speed as he bounded through the scrub and grass. There had only been one other time that Tracks had moved as swiftly, and it had been so long ago that the difference was felt in the burning of his thighs and the gasping of his intakes. Yet he had to get away. Outrun the sentry, somehow, and hope that there was some sort of cave or turbofox burrow that the Autobot might hide in until he was certain he was out of danger. He was so focused on keeping himself moving and desperately searching for a place to run to, that Tracks was unaware of how close the sentry had truly gotten; only finding out the moment the leather sacks of the guard's bolas slammed into a calf, causing the winged mech to yelp before the remaining rope subsequently tangled around his legs, immobilizing him and sending Tracks crashing to the ground.

Bouncing as his earlier momentum carried him into a rough roll across dirt and rock, it took precious astroseconds for Tracks to even become aware of his surroundings once more, and by then, his pursuer had already caught up. With terror in his optics, the Autobot watched as the sentry brought his stead to a standstill at the fallen mech's side, the tip of his sword brushing aside the bits of captured foliage that had gotten stuck in his collar with the tumble.

"So you aren't just a serf," the guard spat, his lip component rising in a sneer. "Then allow me to inform you, that on behalf of his great majesty, the One True Emperor, you are hereby-"

"Plea: Wait!," a secondary vocalizer called out.

Alarmed, both sentry and slave turned toward the source of the sound; the tears no longer at bay, and instead cascading down Tracks' face as he watched Soundwave lumber over the nearest ridge awkwardly. At the sight of the other mech with a sword to the captured Autobot's neck cables, the Decepticon straightened up stiffly, marching the rest of the way towards the sentry.

"Fact: That one is mine. Order: Stand down."

"I am afraid I can not do that, councilor," the soldier scowled, not budging. "It is by the Emperor's decree that all slaves found guilty of desertion, especially one of Autobot kin, are subject to immediate punishment. In this case: execution. Interfering, or impeding, in my sacred duties to his majesty are treasonous crimes, sir, and are also met with similar justice."

Soundwave glared at the sentry as he closed in, pausing five feet away from the pair. "Status: Am aware of the law," he replied, his tone even more chilling in its monotony than usual, "Autobot: not fleeing. Fact: Was taking him for a picnic on the hillside, after a little hike. We were separated for a short period of time."

"A picnic?," the guard questioned snarkily, "With a _slave_?" His expression belied how much slag he thought the telepath's excuse was.

With all the calm of a rising storm, Tracks watched as the blue mech lifted a servo silently, one golden finger pointing somewhere off to his right. "Estate: past these mounds and fifty paces by your stead. This area is subsequently mine to enjoy as I please," Soundwave informed, his visor dimming as his glare intensified. "Judgement: Not yours to pass on what I do or do not do with my concubine, given your status."

The sentry practically flinched as the other Decepticon brought up his social standing. Gritting his denta for a tense moment, the soldier glanced down on the still-captured Tracks, cutting the winged mech with his vile gaze. "Very well, councilor," he eventually bit out, "I release this one back to your custody again."

Dropping to a knee, the mech none-too-gently yanked the leather-braided cord from around the Autobot's legs, wrapping the bola up and returning it to a small satchel sewn into the side of his horse's saddle. He paid Tracks no mind as he scrambled up from the ground in a hurry, rushing to the telepath's side and hesitantly taking shelter behind Soundwave's larger form. Sword sheathed and personals gathered, the sentry turned around to face the councilor, bowing stiffly in respect. "A good orn to you, sir," he said, no sincerity to his words. "I hope your 'concubine' does not stray far from your optics a second time. For your sake."

Not replying, Soundwave merely watched as the soldier mounted his stead and returned to his patrol, on the far side of the hills. Only once he was out of sight completely did the Decepticon turn about, grabbing his slave by the arm harshly. "Command: Come," was all he said, practically dragging Tracks through the rough underbrush as he headed back for the carriage, waiting on the nearest road side. Now that the threat of death was passed, all compassion had left the telepath and intense ire had reclaimed its place within him. He thought he might just throw the Autobot to the ground and beat him himself, that is how much every sound -every little grunt or gasp as Tracks tripped along behind him- annoyed Soundwave. Yet he managed to refrain from such violence, marching to the coach that finally came into view and silently forcing the winged mech up inside the vehicle.

"Heading: To the city. Swindle's market," the councilor ordered of his driver, before he too climbed inside. Before he had even fully shut the door, the carriage creaked into motion.

**xxXxXxx**

He'd made a grave mistake...

Sitting in the coach, rocking as it moved from open, pitted roads to the winding, cobbled streets of the city, Tracks stared mutely at his pedes, unable to find the words to speak up. Soundwave's anger did not allow for anything other than silence; his glowing visor beating any glances upward back down to the floor. It had been that way since the councilor had saved him from the sentry back on the hillside and Tracks believed it would remain unchanged for the entirety of the trip. His escape attempt, after last night's horrible confrontation, garnered him no favours.

_'Idiot,'_ the multi-coloured mech chastised himself silently.

The Decepticon should have just left him to the soldier. Granted, death wasn't really what the slave wished for, but it would be a much better punishment than sitting here, helm hung in shame, wondering what (or when) Soundwave's next move would be. Hoping for some sort of reprieve, Tracks glanced toward the carriage windows; the curtains parting enough with a particularly hard bounce to show the tightly mashed row of homes and businesses. Recognition was slow to bloom and when it did, the Autobot felt his spark wither drastically a second time that orn. This was the _slave market_.

The coach began to draw to a stop as they neared one door in particular and Tracks whipped his helm to the councilor in fright. Soundwave still sat, arms crossed over his chestplates, just staring in ire. He did not speak to explain or question where they were, only confirming the dreadful thoughts the winged mech felt buzzing around in his helm.

"P-please, I-," Tracks began in a panic.

"Order: Silence!," Soundwave interrupted immediately. His cutting glossa brought the slave to instantaneous muteness, but could not quell the vicious trembling of his plating or the wheezing of his intakes as he struggled to swallow down all his screams and protests.

_'I-i deserve this,'_ the Autobot cried within, tears welling around his optics. _'A-after all I've do-done and d-didn't do... I s-should have been sold o-off long ago...'_

And now the telepath was doing just that. Tracks couldn't blame him for wanting to get rid of the winged mech. He wouldn't want to bother with himself any more either. Getting to his pedes, Soundwave shuffled out of the carriage and down onto the street as his footman opened the door, ignoring the shaking slave as he relayed hushed commands to his servant. Knowing what was to come next, Tracks was alarmed when the door slammed shut instead; the councilor seen outside the window, gathering his cloak and satchel from the footman and heading down to Swindle's door by himself.

"His lord demands that you remain where you are," the footman informed, noticing the terrified Autobot's watching. He seemed indifferent to the other's frazzled state. "He will return in some time."

So that was it then. Soundwave was first going to haggle over return prices with Swindle, before sending the merchant out to collect him. Tracks leaned back against the coach's upholstered seats, going limp, trying to keep from purging on the decadent fabric. Given how angry the Decepticon had been, the slave was sure that it would be a very short meeting. A hiccup escaping, the winged mech covered his mouth with a servo, hoping against hope that it would be enough to silence the whimpering cries escaping him in bursts now. He didn't want to return to the market; didn't want to suffer any more...

Primus, how could he have made such a folly?

**xxXxXxx**

It was dreadfully quiet as Soundwave moved through the cellar.

"As you can see," Swindle grumbled from behind, the lantern swaying with the merchant's slight motions, causing shadows to jump around the empty cells, "I have no more wares. My stock was predominately Autobot and what wasn't sold within the Emperor's time frame was... _disposed_ of. So now I have nothing."

The final comment was added softly and with a touch of something that sounded curiously like resentment. One glance at the smaller Decepticon though and Soundwave was met with an innocent smile. Which might of worked on others, but seeing as the councilor could hear the traitorous thoughts of the merchant (and all his complaining about this stupid decree) it would not spare him from facing punishment for slandering the Emperor. Yet Swindle wouldn't have to bear such consequences for the blue mech did something very unbecoming of himself -he dismissed the other Decepticon's comments instead of noting them in his reports.

"Query: Have any other stock moved through your possessions since the new year?," Soundwave asked, prying deep into the tan mech's mind as Swindle opened his mouth to reply.

"Some small baubles and trinkets. Nothing of significant value, really," he answered. He was speaking the truth, the councilor saw. Swindle's sales had circled around common pottery and jewels since the winter; his purses had suffered greatly from the inability to sell slaves. No smuggling outside of exotic creatures, either.

Satisfied, the telepath finished his notes, rolling up the scroll of his handwriting and a copy of the merchant's records together, and pocketing them both for later. Taking the lead, Soundwave headed back for the stairs leading back up to the main house.

"So, uh," Swindle began, trying to strike up some casual conversation, "Do you know when this ban will be lifted?"

That was a curious question. "Answer: No," the blue mech replied.

"Ah, okay... Do you know _if_ it'll ever be lifted?"

Soundwave came to a stop, turning and glaring at the smaller Decepticon. All these questions were annoying, but especially being in a mood as he was, the last thing the councilor wanted was some idiot yammering away in his audio sensors. Swindle cringed a little at the glare boring into him, but he only lifted the lantern higher, trying to hide behind its flame.

"I'm just asking! Autobots are good merchandise, you know! I mean, you have plenty yourself, right?," the merchant babbled, his glossa speeding through his words in his nervousness. "So, being a customer yourself, I figured you would be kinda off-put by these changes as much as some are. After all, you have physical evidence just how beneficial a stock Autobots make. I'm sure that exotic, winged one you bought from me has paid for itself by now!"

At the mention of Tracks, the telepath felt his arm snap forward, snatching the lantern from the other Decepticon's shocked fingers and leaning down into the tan mech's face, before he became aware of every inch of his frame again and the red-hot rage that coursed through it. "Autobot: Has a name," Soundwave growled, his visor a sharp red against frightened purple. "Addition: Is not for you to discuss. _Ever._ "

"Y-yes, co-councilor," the merchant stammered, his jaw tightening as he tried to quiet his chattering denta. "I a-apologize for over-stepping my p-place. P-please, allow me t-to b-bless you with some f-fine silks o-or gems as c-compensation. I even h-have-"

"Negative," the blue mech cut in, straightening up and storming up the rest of the staircase. "Status: Do not want your merchandise."

"O-of course, councilor. Whatever y-you say, sir," Swindle said, following quickly, bowing every few steps as a means to soothe Soundwave's anger.

Unfortunately, Soundwave was not the type to be bought and he did not have the patience to deal with mouthy fools. Setting the lantern down on the first table he passed, the telepath moved directly for the front door; pausing only long enough to grab his cloak and don it once more. Swindle, unsurprisingly, had kept close on the blue mech's trail and spoke again as he bowed for the umpteenth time.

"If his lord thinks of anything he might desire, please allow me to provide him with any such items -free of charge- to apologize for the offence I have made in foolishness today," the tan Deepticon pleaded, his final attempt to remedy the situation before the councilor left. "I'm afraid I may have forgotten myself, distracted by the toil I bear gladly as I serve his great Emperor and this bountiful land."

Soundwave looked the merchant over -from his lowered chassis, to his clenched fists, shaking trepidly at his side- and could not bother formulating a response for the anxious mech. Instead, he just turned and left, slamming the door on Swindle's pathetic display. At the sound, there came an immediate scurry of activity: his servants, sitting at the carriage, leaping into action upon their master's return. Hurrying into place, the footman opened the door as the councilor stormed across the street and inside in one fluid motion. "To the harbor," he ordered of the waiting serf, glad to feel the coach grind into motion once more.

Tossing his satchel to the side, the telepath leaned back in his seat finally, finding himself staring at the source of all his frustrations again. Tracks sat crumpled over as before, his helm hanging between two hunched shoulders and wings dipped heavily behind him. It didn't take a genius to see that the slave had been crying also; the drops from his tears still glittered in spots about his lap.

Soundwave supposed he should have felt something like pity for the Autobot. After all, Tracks was only in such straits because he believed that the councilor headed to the market with the specific intent to sell him back. The terrified thoughts had been practically screamed at the telepath once the multi-coloured mech realized they were drawing near Swindle's dwelling. Yet, despite wishing greatly that he could turn the troublesome slave onto some hapless merchant, the fact remained that doing so was now illegal. Death being the only alternative for a misbehaving slave. Tracks did not know this though... And Soundwave was not going to enlighten him either. The Autobot's spark-seizing fright kept him blessedly silent -in processor and mouth. Silence was a state sorely needed of Tracks after his scurrilous actions this morning. Pleased with this result, the blue mech settled comfortably into his seat, mulling over the number of businesses he had to visit still this orn.

All the while delaying the nagging question of what to do with the winged mech once they returned home.

**xxXxXxx**

After a long orn, driving about the city, they were finally heading home.

It was not a joyous occasion. Tracks, convinced that Soundwave was just unlucky to have no one to turn the slave over to, kept silent still as the carriage began the long drive up the valley and back to the Decepticon's estate. Though he himself felt nothing but misery at the fact, his tanks revelled at the idea of returning. They had ached all orn as the winged mech had been too afraid and too distraught to mention his hunger when it had struck. The estate would have food plenty! Provided that the councilor saw it fit to feed the slave... Tracks was certain he wasn't going to get that privilege.

Fresh tears coming to his optics, the Autobot remained with his face turned down as the carriage rocked and bobbed its way up to the top of the hill, pulling into the estate front courtyard with a gratifying squeak of wagon wheels. Immediately, the footman was at the door, opening it for Soundwave who climbed down before turning to look back into the coach. "Tracks: Follow," the blue mech commanded lowly, ire still prominent in his vocalizer.

Tracks did not argue or beg; simply slid out with barely any grace, falling into line behind Soundwave's pedes. He felt the unhappy stares of the servants as they walked away from the carriage and knew that the other 'bots were justified in their anger. The slave had been the one to commit a crime and drag the others into it by way of unwitting collaboration. In any other situation, they would be severely punished alongside Tracks. They still might be punished once Soundwave was through with the Autobot. Now plagued with guilt on top of everything else, Tracks marched behind the councilor, hoping that this would all come to an end shortly.

"Order: In," the Decepticon said, opening Tracks' berthroom door as they arrived. The slave entered without a word, sitting on the edge of the berth as per a golden finger's silent instruction, listening as Soundwave shut the door angrily. A hesitant glance upwards showed that the councilor had not left.

Red visor an angry beacon in fast approaching night, the telepath paced the room for a couple kliks, eventually turning and facing the hunched over Autobot. "Query: What were you doing?," he demanded, fists clenching tightly as he spoke.

The winged mech tried to respond, but only could move his lip components silently for a few astroseconds at first. "I-i'm sorry, M-master, I-"

"Demand: Silence!," Soundwave interjected nastily. "Tracks: Full of slagging excuses. Status: Enough is enough! Do you wish to die? Fact: Running away will result in nothing but execution. If you're so desperate to be off-lined, I can save you the trouble and summon a court official to perform the task for you!"

It was quiet following the councilor's outburst and Tracks could only presume that meant the blue mech was waiting for a response. "N-no," he began uncertainly, servos sliding upwards slowly and gripping at his forearms, "I-i... I j-just thought..." His optics were warming over a third time and his intakes stuttered a little from the tightening of his chestplates, as he struggled to put the words to his oppressive emotions. "I-i believed i-it best if I w-wasn't here a-a-any longer. I d-didn't wa-want to d-die."

Soundwave gave a snort at the answer, arms crossing over his chestplates irritably. "Death: An equal solution to that problem," he said cruelly, watching as the slave flinched violently. "Status: Are lucky that so far have been able to narrowly escape such an end multiple times."

"N-no," Tracks whispered back daringly. "No, I'm n-not..."

Feeling a sudden urge to hit something, the Decepticon stomped to the door, whirling back around as he jabbed a finger towards the other mech. "Status: Are not to leave this room ever again! Tracks: Will be monitored strictly and fed only when thought suitable. Be grateful you are not being severely punished for your foolishness," the telepath growled.

It seemed, finally, that his words had struck a cord within the Autobot. "W-why?," Tracks demanded, his vocalizer quickly rising as he turned weeping optics to the councilor. "Why are you doing this?! I'm only trying to get away so I won't bother you any more!"

Soundwave pulled his servo away from the door handle for a moment as he replied. "Fact: That is not how it works," he glared.

"I know!," Tracks shrieked, throwing his servos up into the air. "By Primus, I know that, but running off would be better than asking the one I love to sell me or release me." It took all of ten astroseconds for the Autobot to realize what he had just shouted and when he did, he sank deeper into his seat, a servo clapping over his mouth in shock.

"Query: Love?," the blue mech questioned condescendingly. Tracks, understandably, refused to look anywhere in Soundwave's direction. "Tracks: Dare to suggest that you 'love' me? Status: After all your cruelty, you think it's possible for anyone to care for you in any regard? Idiocy!"

His patience having run out completely for that orn, Soundwave turned and yanked the berthroom door open violently, eager to put as much distance between himself and the slave. Though he didn't see the way Tracks hugged himself, folding over into a ball, the telepath felt as a clouting miasma of despair billowed around the room quickly. And he didn't care. He'd excused the Autobot's trangressions one too many times. Right before the door slammed behind Soundwave and he stomped off to round up some guards, the softest of whispers was heard from within the room; echoing another "I know" into the gathering darkness.

**C.M.D: Think Soundwave was justified? Feel sorry for Tracks? Be kind; give me your mind~ REVIEW, please?**


	21. Chapter 21

**C.M.D: Despite my best attempts, it seems I'm only going to have one chapter prepared for update period this month. Ah, well... Next time, I'll have more for sure. For now, please enjoy the drama as it continues along its apex and Happy Valentine's Day, dear readers!**

The change was quick.

Dawn had barely peeked before two guards knocked loudly on the door, striding inside not a moment after, grabbing the slave and marching him from his room. He was not allowed anything but the clothes he still wore -dusty from his escape attempt yesterday and wrinkled from a night of restless sleep- and it did not seem as if he would have any replacements any time soon. Mute, Tracks allowed himself to be led from the halls of Soundwave's personal areas, through twists and turns unknown to him within the estate, to a small door tucked out of sight between two pillars. The room behind it was equally tiny, if not more. Easily several times smaller than the place he had just come from, this new space was only as long as eight short pedesteps and two miserable shuffles left to right. It had no furniture, no decoration, and only a slit -thinner than his forearm- to let in dim light to fall upon the pitiful mat eating up most of the floor space.

It wasn't even a proper cot...

But the Autobot said nothing of this miserable prison. He didn't even deserve a room, in all honesty. So Tracks sat himself on his little berth, compiled of one, single dried layer of hay, and said nothing when the guards closed the door; their armour rattling as they took up position outside. His optics aching, the winged slave decided there was nothing more for him to cry over this time.

**xxXxXxx**

It had not been hard to make his decision. Though anger motivated all of his choices, it did not erode away his sanity completely. There was nothing that could be done with Tracks, Soundwave knew, that did not ultimately lead to death. Yet, he could not abide by the slave's behaviour no longer, nor could he stand to be so close to the other mech. So he summoned a few guards from his personal unit, set them with strict instructions and sent them off before the sun had fully risen. In a couple short cycles, the room Tracks had occupied was stripped of its effects, scrubbed and returned to the static state of a place waiting for a new inhabitant. On his orders, materials were either thrown out, divvied up among the attending servants as rewards or to be sold -all except for two items: a smooth prayer token and the library room key.

These Soundwave kept for himself, put in a little laquered box on the desk in his private quarters. One was his own property -justifiably reclaimed- the other he had yet to decide what to do with. The moment he closed them within that box though, the telepath was determined to forget about them. And with that determination, he did. The next couple of orns were spent travelling around the city, performing his annual duties, filling out his reports to the Emperor. The work felt good, helped Soundwave push through the still-hot embers of rage and betrayal, making him confident that he could finally approach his Emperor without causing any incident.

Away went the messenger.

The next orn, his request for an audience granted.

**xxXxXxx**

"Ah, Soundwave," Megatron beamed, the silver mech turning to face the councilor as he approached.

The shorter Decepticon was slow in his stride, not enough to be disrespectful, yet enough to allow him to gaze upon the gilded room he now was in. Much of the inner sanctum to the Emperor's palace remained a mystery, even to those closest to the Warlord, and as such, Soundwave had never seen such splendor! Surrounded by a mix of pillar and wall, the circumference of the room was tiled in deep gold, four waterfalls of jade and silver sat in equal space across from each other, pooling streams of crystalline water to a spouted fountain in the center of area. The structure of the fountain was formed by a divine blend of the same gold and silver set around the room; the bowl comprised of translucent jade, whilst precious diamonds and emeralds brought forth the detail of the flora laid into the rising branches of metal weaving above the fountain's pool. Bouquets of colourful splendors -ranging from white to purple and even splashes of navy blue and pink- spilled over the rims of wide vases, hand-painted with some of the finest creations that the councilor had ever seen. They matched perfectly against the drapery of rich silk cascading down from the ceiling and around pillars, in tone with the few murals crafted on the larger walls.

Covered in spots of sparkling light pouring down through the dappled ceiling, which had been created specifically to look like golden, woven tree branches, the entire place had an ethereal feel to it. Almost... magical and peaceful.

"I see you are in awe of my 'gazebo'," the Emperor chuckled deeply, drawing his servant's attention once more.

Soundwave came to a pause, falling on one knee as he quickly bowed his helm. "Apology: Was marveling-"

"Yes, yes," Megatron interrupted, pausing to sip from his goblet, "I'm well aware, Soundwave. I had demanded such a result of this place when I summoned the slaves and tradesmiths stellar cycles ago. Seeing as I have no time for pointless fauna and am no fool to allow such a large, open entry point to the recesses of my home, I did think it too challenging for the lessers to grant me a chamber of divine tranquility. They surprised me with this, thus they were rewarded with keeping their lives. So!"

The Warlord set his drink down on the small serving table, paying Shockwave no mind as he appeared from the shadows to refill it. "Has all been well in my city?," the silver mech asked, one servo held out to Soundwave.

The councilor rose, tipped his helm forward respectfully again, moving forward to set the scroll in his Emperor's grasp. As anytime before, it immediately disappeared into Shockwave's claws. "Status: Citizens obey as his Lordship desires. Business: continuing forward, though lack of slaves has slowed monetary gain," the telepath informed, stepping back his usual three paces. "Fact: no Autobot slaves have come in or out without your Emperor's knowledge, and those currently employed continue to abide submissively."

Megatron hummed as he listened, the smile on his face growing as Soundwave finished his summary. "That is excellent. Just what I wish to hear! You've worked hard for me, Soundwave, and your report has only confirmed what others have shared with me as well. Thus, I must request something of you," the larger Decepticon said, reaching again for his goblet.

"Query: Yes, my lord?," Soundwave asked, hesitant but attempting to hide it. There was a certain vulnerability about not being able to glean one's processor and rely solely on the physical, but the councilor believed his Lord's calculating smile meant no good no matter what was spoken next.

"As the winter has ended," Megatron began, staring into the rich colour of his drink as he twirled it gently, "All reports have shown that the daring, few Autobots are no more. Starved and scattered to the four winds, as I knew they would be, the thorn in my side exists no longer. It is a pleasant thing to know. Alas, I understand my people have been quite despondent since they lost such a viable resource and Shockwave has been diligent in finding a solution to this problem as well."

The blue mech glanced at the cyclops warily before turning his gaze back to the Warlord. The beauty of the room could grant him peace no more. "Question: What is solution, my Emperor?"

"Why, the Autobots, of course," the other Decepticon replied, as if it was the simplest answer in the world. With a chuckle, he drank from his glass, smacking his lip components momentarily as he took his time to continue. "The Autobots that still remain under my legacy have been purged of all bad seeds and strays. They are the tried and true wealth of the Empire. So rather than let that stock waste away and be forced to substitute it with my own people or other, more undesirable specimens from uncharted lands, I think it prudent to begin breeding new slaves immediately!"

Shock froze Soundwave for a few, short astroseconds as Megatron paced a little around his indoor "garden". Had... Had his Emperor really proposed what he think he just had? And how did that tie into the favour that the silver mech wanted from him?

"Shockwave will be in charge of building the facilities by the next lunar cycle," the Warlord announced, "And also hand selecting the physicians that will attend him. Together, they shall survey every household and select only the fittest slaves worthy of breeding. With time and effort, we shall have a whole new generation of slaves to meet the demands of my people -genetically crafted for utmost subservience and loyalty to their rightful betters."

"Status:...and me?," the telepath inquired meekly.

Megatron paused, seeming utterly surprised by his servant's response but laughing anyhow. "I should of thought it obvious, Soundwave," the silver Decepticon chuckled. "We shall need slaves of every fit and make; a match for every manner of labour -both in the field and in the _berthroom_. As it stands now, you have one of the most beautiful and exotic specimens that exists. Tracks would make a suitable breeder for a new line of pleasure slaves... Of course, I require a _personal_ showcase of his abilities before I make my final decision. Surely that won't be a problem for you... Will it, Soundwave?"

Red optics were fixated on him, cutting deep into his spark like two poisoned daggers. In that moment, Soundwave thanked terror for locking his limbs in place, otherwise he would have collapsed to the floor then and there. His processor was still reeling from the sudden news of Megatron's intentions for the current Autobot slaves, that this additional stress -involving Tracks no less!- only delayed reason from returning. He should have known that this one orn might happen... had even expected his Emperor might... yet he'd hoped-!

Common sense nibbled at the back of his processor, where the horror hadn't full reached. It reminded him that a couple astroseconds had already passed; reality would wait no longer and Megatron could not either.

"Fact: All is at my Lord's request," the councilor replied, his vocalizer strong and unwavering. "Plea: If I may, Emperor, keep Tracks at my estate long enough for one final appointment from the physician. Status: Has been not his usual self these last few orns and am concerned he may be suffering still from the winter."

A frown graced Megatron's face as he crossed his arms behind his back thoughtfully, staring off at something in the distance. "Ah, yes... He was quite ill this winter, wasn't he?," the larger mech grumbled. "Very well, Soundwave. Tend to your concubine and ensure that all is fine. Should he be fit, I expect that you will bring him to the palace at once."

"Status: agreed," Soundwave replied, bowing at the waist. He waited until his Emperor had properly dismissed him before heading back out to his carriage. He walked evenly at first, then the telepath moved on swift pedes once he could no longer feel the immediate presence of Megatron's mind, feeling a distinct need to flee from the palace.

_A breeding factory for Autobot slaves?_

And _Tracks_ to join it after Megatron had his fill of the winged mech?!

This seemed like genuine madness. Worse, it was... it was _demeaning_. A fate too cruel for anyone, but especially for the damaged Autobot Tracks. Though... Hadn't he decided that any punishment other than death was befitting of the slave cycles ago? Hadn't he already stripped him of his rights and possessions, objectively returning him to a state of "broken accessory". Tanks churning wildly, Soundwave climbed up into his coach, urging his servants home as he fought to keep down the nausea. The depth of his actions weighed heavily in his conscience, pinned up alongside the intentions of his Emperor, and the blue mech felt even sicker.

There was nothing he could do now that his Lord had spoken.

He was trapped.

**xxXxXxx**

"My lord, the physician has arrived."

Soundwave set down his utensils, having been simply sitting there for a while, unable to bring himself to eat. Venting softly, he turned to the servant standing at the foot of the gazebo, speaking. "Arrival: acknowledged. Order: Direct the physician to the guest chamber and provide his every need. Status: Shall see him shortly."

The femme bowed as she took in her master's command, before turning and moving through the gardens to the nearest doorway quickly. Taking a moment to gather his strength, Soundwave rose, leaving his untouched meal and heading back indoors via another route. He stopped in to see the seamstress first, confirming that her and her assistants had received the sudden delivery of silks, then directing the servants to the bath hall to await further instructions, continuing on his way shortly after. The riches of his estate waned as he delved deeper through the long halls, vastly approaching an area simple and clean: the servants' areas. Around the next corner, between two pillars rested a single door nearly invisible to the passing optic, with only one guard before it.

Though the mech said nor did anything out of turn as the councilor approached, there was an aura of guilt around the guard, causing him to give the other Decepticon a suspicious glance; striding forward and shouldering through the tiny doorway impatiently. There was a strangled gasp and the subtle thuds of the pteruges' strips as they swished in sudden motion, before the sight of his second guard standing over a kneeling Tracks met Soundwave's vision.

Rage erupted immediately, rocketing upwards in less than an astrosecond, bubbling wildly as it waited to spew forwards. With a jerking motion, Soundwave silently demanded the guard leave, and the mech did so in a muted panic, nearly forgetting his sword as he fled. There would be time for punishment later, but right now the blue mech had other issues beside insubordination to handle first. The telepath barely waited for his servant to be gone before he slammed the door shut, rounding on the distracted slave with all the force of an erupting volcano.

"DEMAND: WHAT _IMPUDENCE_ IS THIS?!," he bellowed, reaching down and yanking the Autobot to his pedes by the neck of his tunic.

A wooden cup fell from the quiet mech's fingers, clattering to the floor and spilling a line of rich-coloured wine. Its presence was so astonishing, that for a moment, Soundwave was speechless. It did not last long.

"Query: You have been DRINKING?! Demand: Who gave you this?," the councilor shouted, shaking the still-complacent Tracks, "Status: Despite all your prior protests, you would sell yourself out now for simple addictions?!"

The slave's helm snapped back and forth a few times at the Decepticon's force, before Soundwave finally paused in his assault. Optics clouded with intoxication, Tracks looked up at his master; a drunken smile spreading across a joyless face. "I was merely making trades," that lovely mouth answered, sweet even when distorted by a slight slur, "Seeing as there was no indication that I would be fed or hydrated. I didn't think Master would care."

Shock, once again, but this time accompanied with crippling remorse. Soundwave realized he had forgotten to include any instructions for Tracks' care beyond his imprisonment, but starving the Autobot had never been his intentions! He'd assumed his staff would ensure Tracks would be properly fed every meal, whether or not he ate of his own freewill, and obviously they had taken his lack of reminder to mean something else. His tanks squirmed uncomfortably as this revelation washed over the telepath, and he quickly dropped the slave back to the floor, turning away from him as he tried to process this unexpected information.

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Tracks laid out on the floor, grasping his empty cup with one servo while his index finger on the other swirled about the glass, searching fruitlessly for any remaining beads of wine. "Inquiry: How can you bear to _disgrace_ yourself this way?," Soundwave asked, the words coming out more acidic than he the casual tone he aimed for.

For a lengthy time, Tracks was silent and a brash probe at his processor only brought forth a grey image to the telepath's own mind, alongside a spark-deep sensation of miserable acceptance. Nausea was on the rise again and Soundwave hurried to stamp it down with irrational anger. "Status: Perhaps I should leave," he spat, "Allow you to return to your new 'duties'. Tracks: _Clearly_ happy with this arrange of events!"

"So noisy...," the Autobot sighed, twisting his cup about drunkenly in one final search for a drink. Still, there was nothing to be found, and concluding such, he finally let the cup fall free from his grasp. "Getting jealous when I must work to eat. You put me here after all."

"Fact: Then it is a good thing than that the Emperor has summoned for you," Soundwave retaliated, remembering the reason he had even deigned to come see Tracks in the first place.

Hazy, blue optics shuttered at the announcement, rolling up towards the Decepticon. The telepath could sense as the winged mech's inebriated processor slowly absorbed the news, a spark of understanding reflecting in his otherwise dull gaze. "The Emperor...," Tracks mumbled. "Okay."

The councilor watched, ire brewing away under his quiet facade, as the slave slowly pushed himself up off the floor and onto his pedes. With all the grace of a poor marionette puppet, Tracks smoothed down his short robe, allowing Soundwave to grab him roughly by his forearm and drag him from the room. He made no comment about the fact that Megatron had supposedly asked for the Autobot himself, exuding an aura so blank, that it wasn't for the blue mech currently holding onto him, Soundwave would be hard pressed to believe that Tracks was actually there alongside him.

It is the fault of the wine, the Decepticon thought, escorting the winged mech to the bath hall. Terror would return once the intoxication wore off, and it was a sensation he well deserved he argued, handing Tracks over to the waiting servos of his staff. After all, who was not afraid of the Emperor, in some form or fashion? Megatron had not made a reputation to be so easily dismissed by any living creature and fear was only a natural response when one learned that the Warlord had specific interest in them. Yet as Soundwave oversaw the Autobot's physical, then his bath and finally the seamstress' preparations for his journey to the Emperor's court, there was no change in the slave's attitude. Tracks responded as if he were a doll; moving when forced, lifeless until addressed. His expression lay void of any emotions and he was without opinion -vocally or internally- even as the servants fitted him with gorgeous silk and jewels. Usually this sort of treatment would have the multi-coloured mech seething but there was... _nothing_.

_'Why are you not afraid?,'_ Soundwave questioned to himself, trying to pry deeper into the haze that was Tracks' mind. Unlike earlier orns, there was no wall, no fence, to keep him away from the slave's true feelings because this time there was nothing to grasp. Just an endless grey abyss, swirling through his unseen servos like smoke, intangible and hollow. And an acceptance... A cold, profound understanding of what being summoned by the Decepticon Emperor meant, yet only the presence of resignation to counter such knowledge.

He swayed for a moment, his optics flared in alarm, but the blue mech managed to catch himself on the wall before any one could notice and was thankful that he did. His legs felt like they would crumble under him any astrosecond and his spark struggled to embrace any ember of emotion that it had carried before. Across the room, Tracks stood as instructed, transforming into a symbol of beauty and desire under the diligent attentions of the other staff. The passion -his fiery will to freedom- was vanquished. That's why he did not curse or fight, even silently, Soundwave bemoaned, feeling as if blinders were suddenly being ripped off of his optics. There had been no grief when the councilor had walked in on Tracks about to prostitute himself to the guard for a meager meal; no fear when Megatron's name had been brought up; no outrage when his valve had been poked and spread by an invasive physician and his spark casing scanned for any faults... Concern had no place within the slave any more, nor did despair. Tracks was so far beyond those points -he'd crossed an unseen threshold where life itself mattered no longer. Now he was just acting out the impulses of others, accepting this cruel fate, stuck in a state of "unliving", the prospect of death a nil concept.

It had finally happened...

Tracks had _broken_.

And it was completely his fault.

_'I didn't wish for this, I-,'_ Soundwave pleaded wordlessly, unable to watch as the servants dressed the slave for his 'execution' but with nowhere else to turn his gaze. Oh, what even was the point of guilt?! It would not restore Tracks to what he was before -a handful or not- and it certainly couldn't deter the Warlord from forcing the subservient Autobot into his berth. The telepath was as much to blame as the slave was for ever allowing such a twisted state of affairs to unfold between them both and nothing he did would save Tracks from the degrading life he'd been selected for in less than a month's time. Better that the councilor kill the poor mech now and try to garner his Lord's favour after! This was the last orn Tracks would ever truly live...

His helm dropping in shame, it was only through routine that the blue mech did not fall to his knees to weep the tears he felt building behind his visor, from a deep well of sensations he knew were not all his own. He should never have bought Tracks... As Soundwave reflected on bittersweet orns, a sudden thought came to him through the wild trails of his current, wretched ruminations, striking him with violent force.

Perhaps...?!

Tumultuous optics flashed around the room lightning quick, ensuring that nothing had changed in the few kliks he'd been lost in his processor, as the councilor hurried from the room unnoticed.

**xxXxXxx**

He was waiting.

Bathed and waxed and dressed up and laden with enough gems to mimic a treasure chest, he sat, waiting in a lavish seating room, one of many just off of Soundwave's private chambers. Torches in overtly decorated brackets of brass had been lit, hovering like untamed sparks in the growing shadows. Past the stiff arms of thick, embroidered curtains, the bloody skies could be seen threading into a navy black, and yet no one had come to collect him still. How odd, the mech would have thought, if he had any to begin with.

Indeed, the matter of time was one concept that barely was remembered now. From the moment Soundwave had shown up unexpectedly, the slave's processor had been purging everything... Throwing out every emotion and opinion in an attempt to escape the humiliation, and then deciding to abandon his spark completely at the mention of his selling. What need would a slave need of a spark anyhow? As Tracks, he'd been an individual: alive, free thinking and aching from a torturous past. He'd had his chances at redemption and happiness, yet he'd thrown them all back in the face of his benefactor, not able to see them for what they were due to anger and fear. He could never go back to that now... He was only just an Autobot from here on -a possession, lower than cattle under Decepticon rule- and the ruler of them all wanted to bask in this toy's presence.

It meant certain death... But, alas, was the life of a slave -scorned by the only good person in his life- not its own demise?

Thus, the mech hadn't cared when the leering physician had played with his valve, testing its suppleness and ensuring there were no open tears that could warrant an infection. It was why he remained lax as the servants scrubbed him down from helm to pede, using roughened sponges, smoothing out the scuffs and dings in his plating with a never-ending string of dissatisfied tuts. They had been especially disapproving of the state of the Autobot's worn out fingers; the result of his mindless scrubbing of walls and floors in his prison to pass the time. Like a magic trick, all present parties had took the second-hand slave and transformed him into something new. Something worthy of standing before an Emperor... even if in a matter of cycles, he'd be on his knees well beneath the Warlord.

This was his future.

And that was all.

Optics glancing aimlessly about the room, they stopped as they finally took notice of the star-lit sky showing through a window; the change of scenery processing into some form of information a century later.

How unusual, was the thought.

Or it would have been, if such words like 'unusual' could be known to a slave. Which of course, they couldn't. So the mech simply continued to sit there, posed prettily on the edge of the chaise as he had been by the seamstress cycles ago, waiting to be collected and sent swiftly off to the Emperor as dolls were expected to do.

Waiting and waiting.

Morning was quicker to arrive before any one ever did.

**xxXxXxx**

The early cycles just before dawn were cold and misty; a queerly befitting atmosphere for the events that were to follow. Soundwave attempted to pay them little mind, his sensor net already sparking with uncertainty as he focused on his task, his carriage hurrying through the morning fog toward the palace. Guards with torches stood stationed in even paces up the staircase; saluting the councilor as he stepped down from the coach, but otherwise remaining immobile. The sight of so many of them was daunting and the telepath quickly flitted through their processors as he marched up to the palace doors. Nothing unusual could be gleaned and so, Soundwave told himself to tuck away any further fears. If he were to be executed, he would not be able to defend against so many soldiers anyhow.

Weary servants opened the door for the councilor when he knocked, one guiding the Decepticon through the darkened hallways with a lantern. It seemed none had yet woken in the palace or they were simply adept at staying out of sight, even when the likelihood of guests was so rare this time of orn. Soundwave decided to tuck the information away for another orn to analyze; he could not allow himself to get distracted over trivial matters right now. The servant led the blue mech towards the east and through narrower halls that Soundwave was sure that he had never traveled before. As he began to grow irritable, aware that they would have reached the main court by now usually, his guide increased his pace suddenly, quickening towards what appeared to be a deadend. There was, in fact, a door hidden in the deepest shadows at the end of the hall, and it was this that the servant opened, directing the councilor to step through. Soundwave did so, hesitating when he found himself outdoors once more, the pale fog almost up to his waist.

"My Lord," came Shockwave's vocalizer through the mist, "It seems we have a visitor."

A lantern, much larger than the one the servant in the hall had carried, flared to life, revealing the hazy courtyard that Soundwave stood in. The bones of stable stalls could be barely seen through the grey; not too far, the shape of one colossal cyberhorse pawing at the ground impatiently, while two thinner frames stood at its flanks.

"Soundwave," Megatron spoke in mild surprise, only his optics really visible in the dimness. If not for the thick, purple cloak that draped down his backside, one would be hard pressed to believe the Warlord wasn't merely some spectre in the night. "Your presence is... unusual. What brings you to my court just before sunrise?"

Soundwave bowed, despite the fact that such deference might be lost in the fog, quick to reply, "Update: the Autobot Tracks has been seen by the physician. Status: His report should be forthcoming soon, but felt it prudent you be made aware of things."

"Oh?," was the curious hum.

Soundwave rose to his full height again, yet kept his helm tipped forward slightly. "Answer: Yes. Tracks: Is carrying," he informed. "Assessment: Little over a month now."

Though it couldn't be seen, Megatron's annoyance was more than easily heard. "I see...," he responded, turning as he finished pulling on his riding gloves. "I suppose it should be expected. This comes at a good time for you, Soundwave. Unfortunately, there are matters at the borders that require my physical attention, so I will not have the time currently to waste on lesser enterprises. Preparations for the Empire's future can continue once I return."

"Acknowledgement: Y-yes, my Lord," the blue mech quickly said, his glossa almost failing. It was shocking to hear that the Emperor was leaving the capitol city for business; even more alarming that he was so dismissing of Tracks' "sparking". It seemed the silver Decepticon cared not whether the slave was bred now or later, he still had plans for the Autobot in his factory.

"If that is all councilor, I believe you'd best be on your way," Megatron announced, swinging up onto the mighty steed. It huffed unhappily at the Warlord's weight, but Shockwave's surly claws on the reins kept it in place. "You could use a heir in your household and as you now have the opportunity, I suggest you take great certainty that the slave does not lose the new spark."

"Status: Agree, your majesty."

"And, Soundwave?," the Emperor called as the telepath turned on his heel. Pausing, he looked back to his ruler, finding himself pinned by that malevolent gaze. "My absence is not one the people need to be aware of, understood? Shockwave will remain in the court to oversee and resolve any... complications. Should something arise while I am away, he is the one that you are to defer to."

"Command: Understood, my Lord," Soundwave said. His spark was swelling in his chestplates, threatening to explode if its pulsing grew any more erratic. The councilor was certain that its secrets were flaring out from within his plating, painting his crime in a detailed image for his Emperor and assassin to see. Then the cyclops turned away, taking final instructions from the silver Decepticon, before he too inevitably disappeared into the fog.

Knees shaking hard, the telepath decided now was the best time to slip away. He pushed through his aching joints, back into the palace, through the darkened halls and out the front doors down to his waiting carriage. The mech collapsed almost the instant his frame touched the plush seating of his coach; little shivers racking his entire frame. The adrenaline had faded, leaving a hollow space in his tanks that only further irritated his nausea. Yet, there was some sensation of relief in the Decepticon. He had done the unthinkable and it seemed fortune smiled on him by drawing Megatron's attention elsewhere for a couple weeks.

Good, Soundwave thought, as the carriage rolled homewards. There might be time for him to correct things after all.

**C.M.D: DUN-DUN-DAH!**   
**Be kind; give me your mind~ REVIEW, please?**


	22. Chapter 22

**C.M.D: Finally- Soundwave's 'perfect plan' from last chapter. Hope everyone's ready for the drama!**

There was no time for rest.

Soundwave hurried through the halls of his estate, guided by his extensive memory, the lanterns unlit and the moon's light kept obscured by the fog. It hadn't been more than a few kliks since his return from the palace and dawn was fast approaching. The councilor knew he would have to make haste if he wished to keep Tracks' safe in the long run. His determination strong, the Decepticon turned suddenly to the left; opening a door and stepping into light. Though dim, and waning, the torchlight was dazzling after the darkness of a misted night, causing Soundwave to pause so he might adjust to the brightness. Once he could see again, the only sight to greet him was of a stoic Tracks, sitting on the chaise the same as the telepath had last seen him. It appeared as if he had not moved or slept even a moment since Soundwave's departure; flies roving contently around the platter of fruit that had been left for the slave.

A careful press along the other's processor confirmed that nothing had changed in his absence. With a silent sigh, the councilor approached the Autobot, grabbing a few ripe apples from the table and dropping them in a satchel he grasped in one servo. "Tracks: Come," he instructed, reaching out his free servo for the slave. The offer was accepted, yet it felt as if cold porcelain rested in his palm as he helped the winged mech to stand.

Soundwave stared down at their conjoined servos, maintaining the contact for much too long; his spark withering with grief. But, he reminded himself fiercely, there was no time for regrets or apologies. Dropping the servo and instead grabbing Tracks by the waist, the telepath hurried them back out of the sitting room and into the dark halls, leading them out of the estate through a side door meant for servants and slaves. Waiting for them was a mule, tethered to a nearby shrub bush and strapped with a couple travel pouches. The blue mech did not offer any sort of explanation as he gestured for the slave to straddle the creature, nor did the Autobot protest or question the manner in which things were progressing. Given the circumstances though, silence was vital. Taking a few kliks to remove the excess jewellery and fabric from Tracks' frame, Soundwave put these too in one of the mule's cargo satchels; strapping everything down securely, before grabbing the animal's tether and leading them away from the estate.

For a while, they kept to the main road circling towards the city, but then the Decepticon veered away from the barely-visible path and began a laborious trudge up the hillside. The mule kept with the pace, proving more sure-footed at times than the pampered councilor. Still, Soundwave pressed on, anxious to traverse out of the valley before sunrise. As dawn began to break some kliks later and the fog dissipate, it was then that Soundwave stepped down into untamed woodland -limbs scratched and clothing fraying at the edges- but finally free of the Empire's boundary. The knowledge instilled new strength in the blue mech and he continued onward at a steady pace. Through the bramble-like branches and over root and rocks that threatened to trip them up ever few pedesteps, the pair journeyed, astroseconds becoming kliks and the kliks becoming cycles. It was tiresome and Soundwave felt as his pedes dinged and scuffed painfully, yet still he pressed on. He stopped only once, giving them all a chance to drink something, before trekking forward again.

The orn wore away soon enough and night was beginning to peek out from across the horizon. The tangled woods had broken down into scrubby plains cycles ago; the long sweeping grass fading to be replaced with hard, cracking slabs of earth as far as the optic could see. It was not a surprising sight. The Empire had yet to claim any of these lands due to their less profitable value, the dry deserts a nuisance to cultivate, but it was known that some villages lay deep within the hellish region. Much, much farther away from the Empire. Soundwave could only hope they were not completely unreachable.

"...This is not the palace," Tracks deigned to speak, kliks after the councilor had settled on a spot to rest for the night.

He hammered at the ground with the fat end of a broken branch he'd gathered from the wood as they passed through, wriggling it as deeply as it would go between two slabs of rock, tethering the mule's line to it. Climbing to his pedes, the telepath dusted his servos off of his cloak carelessly, turning back to the waiting animal and its rider. "Observation: Accurate," he answered, untying a pack.

It was silent for a while longer as he removed a coarse blanket from the bag, spreading it over the hard ground after a quick shake; lighting a half-shuttered lantern as the whole open plain turned purple in the absence of the sun.

"The Emperor requested me..."

"Status: And you are not going to the palace!," Soundwave snapped at the dull remark. He had to bite his glossa sharply to keep back a slue of nasty comments that rose to the forefront of his processor, especially since Tracks was not the one his animosity was aimed at. When the councilor felt the emotions subside, he added, "Status: Shall be heading west instead. The mule will carry you to a village outside of the empire's range. Tracks: Will not be joining the Emperor's court."

"Order: Come," the blue mech urged, holding out a servo for the slave. "Fact: Need nourishment."

That was the end of their conversation that evening. It took prodding the Autobot a few more times before Tracks finally ate, Soundwave monitoring him intently until he was certain that the winged mech had his fill. Not long after, the thinner mech laid down as directed and fell deep into recharge. Once he was sure the other would not rouse for some time, the councilor packed up the rest of the items, preparing the mule for the ride in the morning. Then he picked up the lantern and started the long trek back to his estate, leaving the sleeping slave and pack animal behind.

****xxXxXxx** **

The blazing heat of a new orn woke the Autobot from a dreamless recharge. Optics shuttering against the blinding light, the mech pushed himself up slowly, confused for a short time. How did he come to be out here in this unforgiving terrain? Helm twisting about the desert, Tracks remembered faintly that it was his master that brought him here and yet the councilor was nowhere to be seen now. The mule, still tied to its makeshift post, snuffled at the bowl of water that had been lain down for it the night prior. The sound caught the slave's attention and he stared at its swollen cargo satchels, already tied on the beast's flanks, for a long time, having yet to move.

__'Shall be heading west instead...'_ _

That's what his master had said, the winged mech noted faintly. West... away from the empire... away from...

A piercing pain penetrated his chestplates suddenly, a sensation akin to his very spark being crushed overwhelming the slave, forcing him to curl forward as the pressure became too great. It hurt, and even the knowledge of such a feeling only caused greater agony to him. For several, long kliks he endured this new torment, plating trembling hard, a sheen of condensation coating him from helm to pede, before blue optics onlined through the pain; burning orbs taking in the dry terrain with newfound sight. Clambering to his pedes with ragged intakes, the Autobot grabbed the mule's rein with a sure servo, untying the animal quickly. He took one long, last look at the unending desert to the west before ultimately tugging the mule in the opposite direction.

Back to the empire.

****xxXxXxx** **

Sluggishly, Soundwave moved down the halls of his private area, heading to his quarters at long last. The trip seemed to take an eternity, his pedes dragging heavily across the floor, and the blue mech was certain that he might collapse before even reaching his berth chambers. Still, he pushed on, forcing himself to take every pedestep, hopeful to not arouse the concern or suspicion of his staff. He should not have remained awake another twelve cycles... Alas, what could he have really done? The matron had already caught him coming out of the bath hall after returning home and if he were to dismiss himself from his duties that orn, there would be gossip before dinner. Soundwave could not afford to have anything, not even the tinniest smidge of rumor, find its way back to the Emperor's court. Thus, the councilor had pushed himself to get through the orn, fighting off the threat of unconsciousness valiantly.

And at long last, the orn had drawn to a close.

Reaching the door to his private chambers, the Decepticon was hard pressed to feel any real relief at the fact. He had gone past the point of complete exhaustion cycles ago and was merely operating like a spectre at the moment. It was foolish of him to think he could go without rest for two orns, not to mention the strength he had put forth, twisting his abilities... Yes, Soundwave thought, walking into the darkness of his room, that especially had been a risky gamble. Gleaning processors was one thing -and one thing that the telepath knew he could do very well- but to manipulate the minds of others to the point of insinuating a false truth? It had worked though. Almost too easily, the councilor had accosted the physician before he had left his villa, plucking at the delicate strings of his processor until the good mech was congratulating the blue mech on his expected sparkling. And since it had worked with one, it was sure to work with more, leading Soundwave to blanket the minds of all under his household so that they believed what he wanted them to.

All except one.

Tracks...

The Autobot, the subject in all this, was the only one that the telepath had not converted into this lie. He had remained untouched, and though Soundwave felt filthy after the way he had plundered the processors of all those that trusted him, he would gladly do it all again to protect Tracks. Falling into his berth, beyond the point of caring about undressing or washing up, the councilor smiled faintly. He would surely be tortured horrendously before being executed for this most heinous crime, yet he did not care. Every single action had been part of his plan to get Tracks away from the empire and the disgusting life that awaited him; now, the winged mech was far from Megatron's reach and a slave no longer. Soundwave could be content that, in the end, he had done right by the poor Autobot. Venting deeply, the telepath was just toppling over the brink into recharge, when there came the soft click of the berthroom door opening.

His mind stretched to scan the intruder, yet didn't have to wander far before a familiar blankness enveloped the dark room. Lunging up from his berth, the councilor grabbed for the lantern at his berthside, almost sending it flying in his haste to get the wick lit.

"Alarm: YOU!?," Soundwave seethed, the sudden flash of light confirming Tracks' presence. "Query: What are you doing _here_?"

Makeup smudged and clothes tattered from travel dust, the Autobot appeared absolutely miserable before his master; his expression noted that he either wasn't aware of his state or didn't care. Dull optics shuttering slow, Tracks silently closed the door after himself, stepping toward the Decepticon. For every step that the slave took, Soundwave was certain to mimic it, always keeping them at a distance.

"...you left," the winged mech spoke, finally coming to a pause. The telepath was so grateful for the end to this awkward dance, that he nearly missed the airy, dead-like tone in the other's vocalizer.

"Fact: Tracks was not to follow," Soundwave scowled. In an embarrassing spark of realization, the councilor threw a servo to his face, groping about desperately to cover himself. His sleep-addled processor was sluggish to catch on that his mask and visor were in fact still in place; he had not had the chance to remove them as per his night time routine before his unexpected guest arrived. Shrugging it off, the Decepticon turned his burning face back towards Tracks... and the ever present blank and empty view of a broken-in slave.

He'd gladly take some queer looks over his strange behavior than this alternative any orn...

The Autobot continued to speak. "You said we were going west... You vanished in the night."

"Status: That..." The blue mech could only grunt in aggravation. Of course, Tracks had misunderstood his orders. He hadn't meant to include the pluralization of 'we', but that's what the slave had heard all the same. Thus, Tracks had travelled all the way back to the villa, effectively undoing everything that Soundwave had hoped to do. Even if the telepath could press on the Autobot's processor, manipulate him to do as he wished, it was too late. Surely Shockwave would have increased the guards along the city's borders, changed up their patrol patterns for mass effectiveness and altered the times that they were out. With all these unknown variables, attempting an escape from Iacon would be stupid as it was deadly. Not to mention, Soundwave couldn't possibly fabricate another lie for the entirety of his estate to believe in, without the current one unravelling at the slightest mistake.

No, the councilor had really been driven into a corner this time and he had no solutions to grasp at.

"You said we were going west, but you came back here...," Tracks mumbled. Even without inflection, his words sounded almost accusatory. "You said Megatron summoned me, but wouldn't let me go to the palace..."

A processor-ache was coming on, sharp and quick, causing the Decepticon to cringe in growing pain. Adding the slave's vocalizer to it only grated on already open and raw neural sensors.

"I do not understa-"

"Status: Of _course_ you don't!," Soundwave bellowed, ripping away the servo that had risen to brace his throbbing helm. The telepath stormed forward until he fully towered over the Autobot; his index finger jabbing against filthy plating with every accentuated word, threatening to knock the smaller mech to the floor. "Fact: Have _never_ seen reason. Tracks: _Always_ willing to accept some miserable self-deceit than believe anyone of Decepticon kin may have good intentions! Nothing was ever _good_ enough for you!"

"But-," the other tried to intervene softly.

"Excuses: Unacceptable!," the councilor snarled. "Addition: Have even handed you freedom on a silver platter and still you return to slander me?! Imbecile! Megatron: Wishes to use you for himself then toss you to the mercy of multiple others; breed you as if you were just cattle. Status: Bought time for Tracks to escape under the guise of a falsehood and instead you work to undermine me!"

Tracks was silent for a lengthy time, in the kind of way only dolls were good at, before he stared Soundwave head-on, his gaze unfaltering. "Why?," he asked, in one, soft vent.

The Decepticon practically scoffed in the slave's face. "Reasons: irrelevant. Situation: too l-late-" The second wind he had garnered in the heat of his outburst had finally waned, leaving the councilor even weaker than before. He only had astroseconds to note how very sore his knee joints felt at this exact moment, before they crumbled beneath him, dragging the blue mech to the floor.

It was only thanks to the quick, albeit disconnected, actions of the Autobot that Soundwave did not hit the floor. Frame shaking with the sudden exertion, Tracks awkwardly pushed and pulled the councilor's bulky form to the berth; many times the sheer mass of the other threatening to trip the slave up and crush him. In the end, the winged mech successfully fumbled Soundwave onto the berth, the plush mattress swelling out at the ends with the sudden drop of weight on its rumpled surface, before everything settled and the councilor sank comfortably into the silken folds. Who knew how long Tracks stood there after the fact, simply watching as Soundwave slept a dreamless recharge, a flicker of undefinable emotion crossing the Autobot's face.

Drawing closer, more silent than a whisper, the slave loomed over his helpless master; servos reaching out for that golden mask. All these orns, the winged mech had known nothing but this fanciful facade and curiosity gnawed at the worn traveller to see what sort of face lay beneath that would even give a possession its own identity. Slender fingers grasped about the edges of the golden surface. One, simple dig between the seams and the metal, warmed by the intakes of its host, would pry away easily. It was so simple...

"...you lied," Tracks mumbled in the darkness, white digits falling away from the battle mask, "To your Emperor. For my sake."

Even without the Warlord's reputation, the winged mech knew that was treason. And yet Soundwave had done so. Such an idiotic thing to do. Like shadows crossing the moonlit garden, sensation brushed along the slave's spark, bringing awareness to tired limbs and an aching sensory grid that the mech had all but forgotten had existed. Fluidly, Tracks crawled on the berth, pulling up his tattered skirts as he aligned himself beside the Decepticon. There was no hesitation, no thought at all, as the Autobot curled up against Soundwave; his lower half nestled in the empty space between arm and torso, his upper half draped across the councilor's chestplates. This close, he could almost feel the heat of the spark whirling from deep within...

Straining to listen a few kliks longer, Tracks finally shuttered his optics, spark and processor relaxing as one.

**xxXxXxx**

Tracks awoke to the harsh, late afternoon sun, finding himself laid out in his master's berth alone and undisturbed. Lip components parted as if to speak, the mech slowly pushed himself up, his searching optics re-confirming that no other presence was in the room with him. Despite the musky atmosphere kicked up by the thrumming of a hundred insecticons, inside his chestplates, the Autobot was chilled and he draped the tattered shawl closer to his frame in a poor attempt to get warm again. This, he thought faintly, was not the wake-up he had anticipated, despite knowing how great of a possibility it was. Rubbing at tired optics, Tracks rose to his pedes fully, heading for the door. The sounds of faraway activity echoed down the hall and, as if lured, the slave headed towards them. He did not get far before the matron, in passing, noticed him.

"My goodness," she huffed, striding directly up to the Autobot. "Were you out in the garden? You are absolutely filthy!"

The winged mech turned his helm slowly, lifting an arm and staring at the fabric of his robes. Indeed, they were quite a mess; ruined, really, if one had to give a more candid assessment. He had not given them even the faintest thought once when leaving and returning to the villa.

"-good robes ruined," the matron was mumbling to herself, her ring of keys clacking lightly as she pulled and prodded at sections of the robe. "Well," the femme continued, louder, as she addressed Tracks directly, "Come along now. You need a proper washing and some fresh robes. After that, you're getting a full meal, I'll be making certain of that! A carrier must be properly fed every few cycles and I won't let our Lord's heir starve while I'm around."

The femme grabbed the slave's arm, yanking him along to the bath hall. Tracks followed, only tripping twice, his sluggish processor absorbing what the servant said, until it finally made sense to his frazzled mind. "C... carrier?," his dry glossa fumbled.

"Aye," the matron replied, as they drew up to the bath hall doors. She shoved them open one-handed, pulling Tracks in after her; releasing him only then to draw on the braided rope hanging from the ceiling near the door, summoning more servants. "It's an adjustment, I understand, but you'll be fine," she soothed half-heartedly, coming up behind the winged mech and starting to tug the dress from his rigid frame. "The master's needed a few sparklings to his name for a while anyhow. If only you weren't so skinny though..."

Was... Was she implying that he was sparked? The slave attempted to address the old femme, but the clattering of the door as more servants filed in distracted him from his increasingly anxious thoughts. A single glance toward the small group revealed that they too tittered in barely-contained excitement, sparkling optics and ecstatic smiles directed towards the Autobot. Tracks felt the corner of his lip components drag downwards a centimeter.

"Quit that now!," the matron chastised the group, stepping away from the winged mech and shooing the servants into action. She huffed irritably, fists on her hips as she watched the younger ones scatter to their designated spots; a single servant taking over her duties to undress Tracks. "The Lord is sparked, yes, but he isn't glass! Tend to him as you usually do and don't dawdle about. The kitchen will have his supper ready for him shortly."

The servants nodded their helms briskly, hurrying to fill the tub and gather lotions and soaps for the washing. The web of lethargy had yet to break and Tracks felt his processor rolling about in his helm, like a wild tumbleweed in a chaotic breeze, trying to keep up with everything happening around himself and at the same time impose his own course of actions. "W...wait!," he managed to force out surely, helm facing towards the matron as she was heading out the door.

The servants, having nearly disrobed him now, paused; their uncertain faces flickering between the old femme and the slave. "Yes, Lord Tracks?," the matron asked, turning back to the Autobot.

"I..."

Why did she believe he was sparked? Did everyone in the estate think that? Was anyone else, out in the city, aware of this lie? Was it even false? Or did Tracks really carry Soundwave's heir? Is this the falsity that the councilor had fed to Megatron? There was a million questions to demand from the servant, but not a single one could reach the tip of his glossa first. Swallowing as he fell back into a forced neutrality, the winged mech settled on another, more worthwhile inquiry. "Where is Master Soundwave?"

The femme seemed to relax a little at the question. "He is in the library at this moment. Once Lord Tracks has eaten, I will be happy to have someone escort you there."

"No," the slave replied flatly, turning his helm forward again. "I know the way." Nodding, the matron left the room completely this time, shutting the door behind her as she went. Smiles plastered back on their faces, the servants continued in their duties, ushering a silent Tracks into the hot bath water.

**xxXxXxx**

Despite all attempts, Soundwave could not focus. Sighing heavily, he set down his book, laying his helm in his servos as exhaustion swelled. Of course he couldn't focus! He'd slept only a few, poor cycles and even those had been rendered useless when the telepath awoke to find Tracks in his berth. Tracks, of all people! Curled against his chestplates, his processor blank as he slumbered pleasantly within his master's arms...

But that was the problem! The slave should not have been here still. Soundwave had taken a gamble and managed to sneak the poor mech out of Iacon; provided him with the means to take hold of his own freedom, minus the removal of his collar. It had gone spectacularly well, as if Primus himself had opened up the path for them. Yet barely a whole cycle later and Tracks was standing in his room, a pitiful doll mimicking words he did not understand. Lost within his own self-absorbed world, the Autobot had once again cost himself his freedom.

Soundwave felt the tears of frustration rise. These last few stellar cycles had been an affliction upon his spark, and just when he had finally learned to let go... This had to happen. The Decepticon tried not to recall his rude awakening this morning, but his thoughts kept slipping back to the softness of silk in his servos and warm plating melded into his side.

Standing to his pedes angrily, Soundwave vocalized a curse to Primus as he shoved his abandoned book back onto the shelves. He was so tired of this entire drama! And on top of it all, he couldn't even retire to his own room due to the troublesome Autobot currently haunting it. He would have to air out one of the dozen guest rooms for the night -and probably indefinitely. At least until Megatron returned. He was just turning to leave when the library door to take care of that horrid task when it opened for Tracks' entry. It did not escape the telepath's notice that the slave had freshly bathed in the time since he'd left his room that morning and, as per usual, he looked _gorgeous_.

"Demand: What are you doing here?," Soundwave asked coldly, fists curling at his sides.

"I came to talk," was the doll's flat reply.

"Status: Do not wish to talk to you. Tracks: Is ordered to return to his room and-"

"Am I really sparked?," Tracks interrupted. The councilor nearly bit his glossa clean in half at the question; hastily, he scanned for any other minds aside from their own and felt a touch of relief when he sensed no one else nearby. All the same, Soundwave crossed the room, slamming the library door shut once more before facing the silent Autobot. "Am I?," Tracks repeated, his optics fixated firmly on the councilor.

His unfaltering gaze no longer unnerved the blue mech. Now it only annoyed him. "Sparking: False," the Decepticon answered in blunt honesty. There was no indication that his response had made any impact upon Tracks' sanity but Soundwave wasn't going to delve further to confirm that. He didn't have the patience or energy anymore.

"So...," the Autobot continued softly, "You fabricated my pregnancy... to keep me from the Emperor. But when I fail to produce a bornling, you will be executed. Correct?"

Silence was his only confirmation. Quietly, Tracks surveyed the room; finding himself a seat a klik later. "Why would you do something like that?," he asked, glancing at the councilor.

Soundwave tensed at the question, thrusting a finger toward the multi-coloured mech as he growled. "Intent: To give you the freedom you desired in the first place, by removing you from the Emperor's reach! Instead, Tracks shall suffer in extension of my crimes once Megatron learns of this treason."

Rouge faceplates laid vacant as Tracks stared up at the irate telepath, optics shuttering closed for a moment. "...you could have left with me entirely," came the slave's enigmatic whisper.

The Decepticon didn't know how to feel. Soundwave floundered at the reasonable suggestion, trying to gather his scattered thoughts, while also ignoring the implication hidden in Tracks' statement. Why hadn't he just left as well? Because... because... he had duties, he argued to himself, and responsibilities and... The household! He couldn't exactly sneak away in the night with a couple hundred or so servants and slaves, yet to leave them behind meant dooming them.

"Action: Not possible," the blue mech huffed, looking away.

The chair groaned slightly as the Autobot shifted, a soft vent escaping him. "The same could be said for me, I suppose."

The councilor deliberated for a long moment, before finally returning his gaze to the winged slave, finding that he had turned away from Soundwave. Now, Tracks' optics roamed from one end of the library to the next, a vibrant hue of blue shining from the wide orbs. "I'm... tired of running," Tracks shared breathlessly, "Perhaps there really is nothing here for me, but I... I don't want to keep doing this. I have nowhere to rebuild, even if my spark could bear another such journey. So, despite the fact it may only end in death, I'm staying."

"Though," the Autobot added, an optic moving to glance at the silent Decepticon, "You could always make a falsehood into a truth, and give yourself a heir at the same time."

"Objection: NO!," Soundwave snarled indignantly, hem of his robes snapping loudly as he straightened up quickly. "Status: Want nothing to do with Tracks in that capacity! Ever!"

A smile cracked the vacant facade, startling out of place on red cheekplates after so long. It curled crookedly at the corners, the spark dancing in the corner of Tracks' optics fading from sight again. "But of course," he chuckled mirthlessly, resuming his study of the library. "That's fine; it only means I'll be reunited with Moonracer sooner."

The telepath had heard enough. Spinning on his pede, he stormed from the library, slamming the door at his exit. He did not care for the scene he was clearly making or that he had not solved any of his problems involving the winged mech. There was only rage thrumming hotly in his spark at the slave's audacious remarks as he stomped through his estate; hidden away, deep beneath the flames of ire, a rattling fear at the smile Tracks had worn so blissfully at the thought of his own execution.


	23. Chapter 23

**C.M.D: Update period is back again and once more I have only one new chapter... But, I suppose, _one_ chapter is better than _no_ chapters. So now we're back in the thick of things -Soundwave shoving Tracks away, Tracks finally forgiving him- but imminent execution is still looming! Time to buckle down, dear readers, and see where their misadventures takes them this time~**

It had been a joyless night following yesterorn's confrontation, sleeping on feathers and silk instead of cracking rock, but when the sun rose the next morning, Tracks rose with it a new mech. He washed up diligently, picked out a simple tunic and tethered his colorful silk belt tight around his waist before sitting at his vanity again in thoughtful silence. How often had he sat here prior, loathing every klik, of every orn? Staring into the glass now, the slave was slowly becoming aware of the things surrounding him that he had never noticed before. Such as the way the dawn light pooled into the room past the garden's many trees and shrubs, brushing a lovely glow across the Autobot's rouge face. Or the birdsong that echoed sweetly on the cool currents as they tousled the sheer curtains, sweeping the pleasant perfume of the villa's flora into the room. Mixed in with the gorgeous hues and patterns along the room walls, it created a comfortable atmosphere and Tracks could only witness all these wonders surreally for the first time.

He had been so blind before...

Blue optics bright as he rose from his seat, the winged mech stepped out into the halls, finding a few servants at work. They spared fleeting glances at the slave but Tracks didn't mind, moving on, each step lighter than the last as the final strands of sleep fell from his helm. "Excuse me?," he paused, gently touching the shoulder of a young mechling polishing the hallway decor.

"Y-yes, milord?," the youth stuttered, flushing at the beautiful Autobot's attention.

Tracks smiled sympathetically at the servant, understanding his feelings. It escaped his notice that he did not feel the need to rage over someone else's adorations. "Can you tell me where I might find the matron this morning?," he asked.

The mechling pointed further down the hall, swallowing shyly. "S-she be in the k-kitchens, milord, n-noting today's meals and food stores as she does this orn, every week. T-that's two lefts, a right, then a-another left."

"Thank you," the slave replied kindly to the youth, patting his shoulder and following his directions. It was simple enough to find the kitchens, as mentioned, and he arrived just as the matron was finishing her duties there.

"What are you doing here, my lord?," the old femme asked, lip components pursed slightly in confusion. "You should still be in your room! It's not proper that you wander these parts."

"I apologize," Tracks said, not at all put off by the servant's blunt disapproval. He spoke evenly and calmly, no longer frustrated but confident in what he was doing. "I thought I'd like to eat my meals here, in the kitchen, instead of waiting for the staff to bring it to me elsewhere. I... I would prefer to spend some company where there is some busyness... Granted that I am not a hindrance to anyone else."

The matron's expression grew stern and it looked as though she was going to refuse the Autobot but, oddly, she hesitated and glanced back at the kitchen full of hard-working staff, then glanced at the halls also filled with various servants with their own individual tasks, before returning her attention to the waiting mech. "...I suppose the master is too preoccupied quite often to sit down for his meals," the femme sighed, a note of silent comprehension in her vocalizer.

"Come," she ushered, gently pulling the winged slave into the kitchen. She escorted him over to a long, plain wooden table, set a good distance away from the rest of the prep areas and stove kilns; wiping it down with her apron, before nudging him into a seat. Immediately, a younger femme rushed over with a platter of food and drink. "You may eat here, anytime that you'd like," the matron continued, shooing the other servant back to work. "No one will bother you and if you choose to eat elsewhere, just relay your desires to any of the staff around the estate and they will inform the kitchen promptly. Now, I have to get to other things but... is there anything else I can do for you before I go?"

Tracks, having already started popping a few grapes into his mouth, stopped temporarily, looking at the old femme. "Yes," he answered truthfully. "I... Could I have some parchment and ink brought to my room? I have not written in so long, not since..." He trailed off, a servo raising a few inches quietly towards his slave collar. "Anyways," he coughed, optics to his breakfast as his servo joined its twin on the table top, "It's been a long time. I miss it."

The matron quickly wiped the look of surprise from her face, dusting her servos off on her apron distractedly. "I will be glad to bring those things to your room personally," she replied. "Now, please, eat. You must be starving."

And he was, the Autobot realized. He thanked the older servant, turning and tearing off a piece of the freshly-baked bread as the femme left. Surrounded by the kitchen staff as they worked away tirelessly and with warm food in his tanks, the lingering cold that had followed Tracks from his recharge the night before began to burn away entirely. Here, he thought, was a comfortable place to be.

**xxXxXxx**

The next orn brought a second surge of strength to Tracks.

He woke feeling better, faster, lighter -all the things he had forgotten existed and had once been an ingrained part of him. There was still the nagging reality in the back of his helm, reminding him constantly of his highly probable execution, but the slave was determined not to fall victim to those emotions again. For too long he had been someone other than himself. If he were to die, he wanted to go knowing that, in the end, he had been true to himself and to the two that he cherished deep within his spark.

That alone gave passion to his once lifeless frame and the Autobot threw himself into a number of activities. First, he scrubbed his room from top to bottom; polishing the rich, wooden furniture and snapping the dust from the linens with a growing flourish. Then he fluffed the mattress and pillows, organized the armoire's contents to his preference, and oiled all the hinges so they would no longer squeak faintly. Tracks proceeded to the library and continued his work there until lunch had passed, then reasoned to take a refreshing bath once finished, to clear away the grime and condensation he had worked up while cleaning. It was pure chance that the slave happened upon the gardener through the window, carrying a bundle of trimmings to be thrown away. Tracks didn't even hesitate in calling out to the other mech.

Now he sat, gently pushing the vase of beautiful -if slightly nibbled and wilting around the edges- flowers across the vanity top, so that they could be admired without obstructing his view. Pleased, the winged mech took a delicate sniff at the flora's heady perfume, meanwhile, laying a sheet of parchment across the vanity and uncapping his new bottle of ink. With skilled precision, he dipped the feathered pen into the coal liquid, wiped the excess and rested tip to paper. Then he paused, quietly alarmed. It had been so long, Tracks bemoaned, and he'd never really taken to fanciful scritching... Well, until Moonracer. But that was neither here nor now, and honestly, the slave had no one to scrawl roughshod poetry for anyhow. Yet, he was determined to do something -something that was him; something higher than his forced station- and so Tracks took to the parchment, etching first the alphabet, then childhood phrases and doctrines, moving on to classical quotes and half-remembered tales. There was nothing more liberating, the winged mech thought, than to see one's own cursive font birth onto the virgin papyrus: confident, flourishing, captivating. It brought his spark to a vibrant thrumming.

The moment was only darkened, for a touch, when Tracks turned and recalled belatedly that he had no one to share this with; the lonely walls of a beautiful room staring back at him. A resigned smile on his face, the Autobot tidied away his supplies, blew out the torchlight and climbed into the berth alone. Yesterday had been a new orn. Today had been even better. Tomorrow, and every orn after he resolved, would be equally the same.

And with that, the multicoloured mech shuttered his optics, drifting into an easy sleep.

**xxXxXxx**

Soundwave staggered down the hall, tripping occasionally over his leaden pedes. He cursed each time he caught himself, wondering in his drunken stupor when the halls of his home had lengthened. Perhaps it would just be easier to lie down and sleep on the cool, cool tile floor... But that would be so unsightly, the Decepticon tried to reason through the high grade. Foolish wants like those were from the mulled energon- the delicious, warm, flavoured high grade that cost mere pennies, promising to fill a 'bot before it ever drained his purse. Soundwave grunted as he stumbled to a knee, his visor winking blearily in the dim torchlight.

Where was he again? Right, his estate. There was a door to his right. Was that his room? The councilor shuffled over on his knees, crumpling against the door with a muffled thud. The moment he touched the door, a hypnotic vocalizer drifted forth, burrowing deep between the spaces of the telepath's high grade-addled processor. This clearly wasn't his room, Soundwave noted faintly with a displeased frown. Tracks resided here and his thoughts were awfully chatty. He should move, the Decepticon mused lethargically. It took an unfathomable amount of time before he realized he couldn't remember how to use his legs.

_I was born in winter, after the frost had set in..._

Tracks' vocalizer was growing stronger... or Soundwave was beginning to lose consciousness. Either way, the soothing narrative of the slave's tone pulled the councilor deep within the realm of the other's dreams. His vision of the hall started to wane; ghosts of figures he did not know and never likely would, moving to a line of story only the blue mech could hear.

_My creators were farmers. My carrier, a merchant's heir who abandoned her legacy for love._

A femme, of gorgeous red and silver, walked by as the decorated halls cracked and aged in front of the telepath's dazed optics. She wore shabby robes in a colour best described as clay, with a history of hurried patch lines, servos busy with menial chores. Her beauty could almost be missed while she toiled, then she paused, and the smile she shared down upon the viewer was the most dazzling sight ever to be seen by a heretic's optics. Awe flooded the blue mech's spark; excitement and joy to be so tightly tied to this femme, resonating in softer tones in the background.

_They agreed to take me further than the fields I slept in. Even if not much. A neighbour took me and my satchel of credits across the river, to the school house I would live at while I learned._

Soundwave watched as a crowd of young 'bots filled the area between him. A professor, old and stately, with a snaking beard that struck a chord of familiarity in the councilor, spoke in hushed words, trying to reel in the impetuous pupils. Sometimes it worked, but other than the echo of its holder's memories, it seemed none of them stayed riveted for long.

A shame, the blue mech concluded. His spark was humming, enthralled by the lines upon the chalk slate board. Or was that really his spark? Soundwave felt confused for a klik, attempting to recall what was his own and what was merely projection, missing as the scene changed. A tall, lanky mech was not paying attention -instead, his optics were glued in the telepath's direction. At the councilor's notice, the youngling grinned; heat washing over Soundwave briefly as he glared in indignant rage. He barely heard Tracks' vocalizer explain the tall one's purpose before a string of various faces flashed through the scene, all of them past lovers. Some a little closer than the others.

His tanks churned tightly at that. The threat of purging broke the illusion for a klik and the councilor found himself back in the faintly lit halls of his estate. He remembered the fragments of these tales, he noted sourly. It's why he busied himself in the city; whiling away the cycles in the local thermopolium, among visiting nobles and rich merchants, filling himself with tankards of the inexpensive mulled energon to forget his current troubles. Alas, it was only a temporary escape and here Soundwave was, once again being consumed by the enthralling script of the Autobot's undiscovered past.

No more. The Decepticon shifted awkwardly, his knees buckling to try and roll back up, when a spark-gasping warmth reached out and touched him with the softest, purest sensation he had ever felt in all of his function. At once, Soundwave gave up all thought to leave, pulled back to the door and the unspoken tale.

_'Hey,'_ a sweet vocalizer greeted, the first speaker he had ever heard outside of this nightly narrator. The femme appearing in his arms suddenly, as if she had always been there and he had never noticed before. She was a soft shade of seafoam, with a shine that shone almost like pure silver in the moonlight, supplementing the sparkles that shone in her deep blue optics.

_'I think you're starting to smoke in there again,'_ she chuckled, a finger reaching up and poking gently against his visor. A low laugh escaped the councilor also, his arms tightening a tiny bit around the femme. The stranger didn't seem to mind. She lay flat against his frame, helm resting on his shoulder plating, staring up into his face with those captivating orbs. _'Did you know, lingering thoughts have been known to make you impotent and turn vibrant reds to dusty brown? Just something to be aware of.'_

He laughed, again, feeling the extent of her warmth as she smiled back at him cheekily. How wonderfully marvelous she was. He never wanted to let her go...

The raucous birdsong snapped Soundwave awake; alarmed, he searched for the unknown femme, a sob nearly breaking forth as he realized she was lost for good. It was several more, long astroseconds, watching as dawn crested over the rooftops, before the spell fully lifted and the telepath realized that none of this was real. To him, at least. Beyond the door he was posted in front of, the recollections of a femme covered in a moonlit shawl certainly were a reality -shattered and tainted by a crushing depth of grief- but true nonetheless.

And this, the blue mech vented heavily, was why he could not stand to remain. There was no rest to be found in the haunted halls of his villa; no curse to be lifted when the conjurer was their own ghoul. It was just another burden upon his processor and one Soundwave was intent on banishing promptly. The thermopolium would be waiting, the Decepticon knew as he hurried back to the front gate, the mulled grade hot for his welcome.

**xxXxXxx**

For a dizzying, nerve-wracking moment, Soundwave was uncertain about where exactly he was. Then the blinding light piercing past his optics and deep into his aching helm was obscured by something -or rather, a someone.

"Finally awake, I see, milord," greeted the matron. Her furrowed brow and deep-cut scowl noted that her presence was anything but a pleasant awakening. With clinical approach, the old femme grabbed and prodded at the councilor's frame, studying a servo here or a chest seam there, all the while dismissing his poor attempts at interjection.

Wrestling with his sluggish glossa and his servant's less-than-amicable physical, Soundwave stubbornly managed a "Query: Wha...?" before the matron cut him off.

"Home. In your berth where ya slagging well should be!," the femme cursed, her denta clacking at the heated words. She turned about for a bowl, taking it upon herself to scrub down the blue mech's face and shoulders none-too-gently as she continued. "The poor carriage serfs had to summon a couple of the city guard to get you back. You'd passed out from too much cheap grade, but not before ya made a blundering oaf of yourself. Honestly! Fixing yourself a fancy new groove over in a filthy drink pit, squished in among the other common folk and exotic sellers... Where is your shame! Of all the years I've served you, ya have never acted so beneath your station and for what? A future siring?"

The Decepticon tried to rise, finding that his evident hangover could not bear to be berated by an old femme (especially not one with so sharp a glossa), but the matron simply pushed him back to the berth with a hard shove, slamming down the washbasin. "I beg your pardon, milord, for speaking out of line," she snapped, sounding terribly insincere as she gathered her things; tucking Soundwave back into his berth tightly as she went, a finger jabbing at the nightstand.

"The physician has left a tonic for you. Drink four cups and the worst of your follies should seize shortly," the matron advised, sniffing disdainfully. "Rest. I shall have a bath drawn later for you, my lord, after dinner. You look more slipshodden than the back room of a whore hut!" With one final scoff of disapproval, the old femme finally stormed from the room, leaving the telepath to blissful silence.

For a while, he wallowed in the near absence of sound all around him, before the rising noon sun poured deeper into his room; a curse upon his pixeled vision and too-hot frame trapped beneath heavy blankets. Grunting unhappily, Soundwave rose to his pedes, ambling awkwardly on numb knees to the windows and yanking the curtains shut. It didn't completely extinguish the ferocity of the yellow sun, but it did dampen it quite a bit, leaving the room well shadowed and quick to cool. Leaning against his berth post, it took an embarrassingly long time for the councilor to realize he was gazing into his desk's mirror... and that the bedraggled bum looking back was in fact himself.

The matron had been right, the blue mech winced. He really was a sloven mess. Though she'd scrubbed away most of the dirt, surface-level scratches dotted Soundwave's exposed frame in frequent bunches and gouges of muddied hues marked his once golden mask. Clearly, his evening at the thermopolium had been an eventful one...

Soundwave wanted nothing more than to clamber back into the berth and forget everything -even what he couldn't remember. Drinking had not helped alleviate his troubles or his complicated feelings. Perhaps a medicated sleep would? Rotating his sore jaw, the telepath unclasped his mask, grabbing the physician's tonic and drinking straight from the bottle. It was a foul, gooey substance with an acrid after-taste similar to rotting onions. Soundwave nearly gagged, yet he managed to push the nausea aside, ripping a sheet from the berth and wrapping it around his suddenly chilled frame.

What was he going to do? The worries had once more returned and the Decepticon shrunk beneath their weight. He'd tried, he truly had done everything in his power, but there was just no way to get Tracks out of the city anymore. Merchants were coming, more than they were going, and not a single processor presented itself trustworthy enough when the councilor had prodded between mugs of mulled grade. He was not going to be able to save the winged slave or himself this time. Exhaustion was settling back into his piping, dragging Soundwave even further down into the mattress, but despite the strangling grip it had on him, the telepath could not just rest. His processor-ache had evolved into something else -black, and thunderous, and prickling between his optics like an over-sized burr- and it kept his mind rolling, even when he didn't want it too. Trapped again, the Decepticon thought. He wasn't even allowed sleep, it seemed.

As he contemplated his miserable position in the universe, the pain began to dissipate and a confused telepath shuttered his optics as he came to the slow realization of it. He still felt nauseous and several centuries too old for his frame, no thanks to his reckless drinking, but his mind... There was something, like a song, calling out to his weary processor. It flowed over cracks and gaps, filling them with comfort just as they soothed over the surface with the same delicate touch. Sleep no longer concerned Soundwave; now, all he could think about was that siren spirit, touching his spark from across the void and erasing all that plagued him. His legs finding new strength, the blue mech rose and stumbled from his room, the sheet wrapped tight around his weaving frame. He was blind to everything but that strange force, letting it guide his steps, desperate to have the solace it teasingly offered.

He followed the thrumming energy, drawn in by its resonating tone through one hall and then the next. He did not realize he had wandered to the exterior hall, until he was inches from the luscious, green terrain of his garden. With bleary optics, the councilor came to a pause, peering in confusion from one end of the plotted shrubbery to the next. He saw nothing unusual at first, then, between the rose bushes, he spotted him. Tracks, donned in the drab clothing of a lowly serf, hard at work; clippings of thorns, leaves, and twigs in his lap while he helped trim the plant, his servos and knees coated in rich dirt as he plotted fresh ones -there was even a smudge of mud across a red cheekplate! Yet, his filthy state wasn't the most shocking to the Decepticon. No, it was the radiant smile that Tracks shared with the other gardeners at work; bringing a bright glow to the usually temperamental Autobot.

This is where that swell of tranquility hailed from? Tracks?! Soundwave was flabbergasted. He surveyed the garden again, realizing that when compared to his recollections of his home several orns prior, the entire villa sparkled with the same vibrant spark that emitted from the slave. His estate had never felt this _alive_... But now it had bloomed, like a flower long suffering of a dreadful winter, its strife-ridden petals peeled away to reveal unrivaled beauty within. How could this be? What was going on?! The telepath tried to think, reorient his frazzled thoughts... In many cases, he would have simply prodded the source of this unprecedented event and take charge with what information he found, but this was _Tracks_. Soundwave wanted nothing to do with his mind no longer! Even if it called to him, seeping warmth and tenderness and a rejuvenating joy he had never known...

The Decepticon shook his helm angrily, glancing once more in the garden. What magic had transpired that had brought forth such a change in the winged mech, and worse, his whole home and staff as well? The sound of laughter -throaty, carefree- pulled his attention once more to Tracks, and Soundwave felt a piercing pang within his spark as he saw the Autobot turn a gorgeous smile to the fawning gardeners. He wanted that. It wasn't fair. He wanted to be there too... After a long moment though, the councilor only hunched deeper into his pilfered sheet and shuffled quickly back to the gloom of his own room.

**C.M.D: Looks like these two have switched personalities XD**  
**Be kind; give me your mind~ REVIEW, please!**


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